n*«:  fftt   » 


ft*»    it 


•5V   * 

•jf 


* 


tm 


if 


/ 


.- 

•*          f^*~*s\       5"" 
X  -f 

#    JicW  V 


\   •% 

' 


ft 


^^ 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 
FREDERIC  THOMAS  BLANCHARD 


flbrue  anfc  If 


<3eorge  IKHUliam  Curtis. 


Chicago : 

Donobue  Brotbers, 

407-429  Dearborn  Street. 


College 
Library 


PS 


0 


CONTENTS. 


I.  DINNER-TIME II 

II.  MY  CHATEAUX 45 

III.  SEA  FROM    SHORE 83 

IV.  TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES 127 

V.  A  CRUISE  IN  THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN 179 

VI.  FAMILY  PORTRAITS 225 

VII.  OUR  COUSIN  THE  CURATE t....  245 


10536C6 


A  WORD  TO  THE  GENTLE  READER. 

AN  old  bookkeeper,  who  wears  a  white 
cravat  and  black  trousers  in  the  morning, 
who  rarely  goes  to  the  opera,  and  never 
dines  out,  is  clearly  a  person  of  no  fashion, 
and  of  no  superior  sources  of  information. 
His  only  journey  is  from  his  bouse  to  his 
office  ;  his  only  satisfaction  is  in  doing  his 
duty  ;  his  only  happiness  is  in  his  Proe  and 
his  children. 

What   romance  can   such;   a  life  have? 
What  stories  can  such  a  man  tell  ? 

Yet  I  think,  sometimes,  when  I  look  up 
from  the  parquet  at  the  opera,  and  see 
Aurelia  smiling  in  the  boxes,  and  holding1 
her  court  of  love,  and  youth,  and  beauty, 
that  the  historians  have  not  told  of  a  fair 
er  queen,  nor  the  travelers  seen  devouter 
homage.  And  when  I  remember  that  it 


8       A  WORD   TO   THE   GENTLE   READER. 

was  in  misty  England  that  quaint  old  George 
Herbert  sang  of  the — 

"Sweet day  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright — 
The  bridal  of  the  eartli  and  sky," 

I  am  sure  that  I  sec  days  ns  lovely  in  our 
clearer  air,  n nd  do  not  believe  that  Italian 
sunsets  have  a  more  gorgeous  purple  or  a 
softer  gold. 

So,  as  the  circle  of  my  little  life  revolves, 
I  console  myself  with  believing,  what  I 
cannot  help  believing,  that  a  man  need  not 
be  a  vagabond  to  enjoy  the  sweetest  charm 
of  travel,  but  that  all  countries  and  all 
times  repeat  themselves  in  his  experience. 
This  is  an  old  philosophy,  I  am  told,  and 
much  favored  by  those  who  have  traveled  ; 
and  I  cannot  but  be  glad  that  iny  faith  has 
such  a  fine  name  and  such  competent  wit 
nesses.  I  am  assured,  however,  upon  th<? 
other  hand,  that  such  a  faith  is  only  im 
agination.  But,  if  that  be  true,  imagination 
is  as  good  as  many  voyages — and  how  much 
cheaper ! — a  consideration  which  an  old  book 
keeper  can  never  afford  to  forget. 


A  WORD   TO   THE   GENTLE    READER.        9 

I  have  not  found,  in  my  experience,  that 
travelers  al wavs  bring  back  with  them  the 
sunshine  of  Italy  or  the  elegance  of  Greece. 
They  tell  us  that  there  are  such  things,  and 
that  they  have  seen  them ;  but,  perhaps, 
they  saw  them,  as  the  apples  in  the  garden 
of  the  Ilesperifles  were  sometimes  seen — 
over  the  wall.  I  prefer  the  fruit  which  I 
can  buv  in  the  market  to  that  which  a  man 
tells  me  he  saw  in  Sicily,  but  of  which  there 
is  no  flavor  in  his  story.  Others,  like  Moses 
Primrose,  bring  us  a  gross  of  such  spectacles 
as  we  prefer  not  to  see;  so-  that  I  begin  t<> 
suspect  a  man  must  have  Italy  and  Greece 
in  his  heart  and  mind,  if  he  would  ever  see 
them  with  his  eyes. 

I  know  that  this  may  be  only  a  device  of 
that  compassionate  imagination  designed  to 
comfort  me,  who  shall  never  take  but  one 
other  journey  than  my  daily  beat.  Yet 
there  have  been  wise  men  who  taught  that 
all  scenes  are  but  pictures  upon  the  mind ; 
and  if  I  can  see  them  as  I  walk  the  street 
that  leads  to  my  office,  or  sit  at  the  office 
window  looking  into  the  court,  or  take  a 


IO     A  WORD   TO   THE   GENTLE   READER. 

little  trip  down  the  bay  or  up  the  river,  why 
are  not  my  pictures  as  pleasant  and  as 
profitable  as  those  which  men  travel  for 
years,  at  great  costs  of  time,  and  trouble, 
and  money,  to  behold  ? 

For  my  part  I  do  not  believe  that  any 
man  can  see  softer  skies  than  I  see  in  Prue's 
eyes ;  nor  hear  sweeter  music  than  I  hear  in 
Prue's  voice  ;  nor  find  a  more  heaven-lighted 
temple  than  I  know  Prue's  mind  to  be. 
And  when  I  wish  to  pl3ase  myself  with  a 
lovely  image  of  peace  and  contentment,  I 
do  not  think  of  the  plain  of  Sharon,  nor 
of  the  valley  of  Enna,  nor  of  Arcadia,  nor 
of  Claude's  pictures;  but,  feeling  that  the 
jfairest  fortune  of  my  life  is  the  right  to  be 
mamed  with  her,  I  whisper  gently,  to  myself, 
\vith  a  smile — for  it  seems  as  if  my  very 
heart  smiled  within  me,  when  I  think  of 
her— ^"Pjuennd  I." 


DINNER-TIME. 


"  Within  this  hour  it  will  be  dinner-time 
I'll  view  the  manners  of  the  town, 
Peruse  the  traders,  gaze  upon  the  buildings." 

Comedy  of  Errors 


DIXXER-TIME. 

"  Within  this  hour  it  will  be  dinner-time ; 
I'll  view  the  manners  of  the  town, 
Peruse  the  traders,  gaze  upon  the  buildings," 

Comedy  of  Errors. 

Ix  the  warm  afternoons  of  the  early  sum 
mer,  it  is  my  pleasure  to  stroll  about  Wash 
ington  Square  and  along  the  Fifth  Avenue, 
at  the  hour  when  the  diners-out  are  hurry 
ing  to  the  tables  of  the  wealthy  and  refined. 
I  gaze  with  placid  delight  upon  the  cheerful 
expanse  of  white  waistcoat  that  illumes  those 
streets  at  that  hour,  and  mark  the  variety  of 
e'  .otions  that  swell  beneath  all  that  purity. 
^  man  goinor  out  to  dine  has  a  singular 

O  O  *-2 

•cheerfulness  of  aspect.  Except  for  his  gloves, 
which  fit  so  well,  and  which  he  has  careful 
ly  buttoned,  that  he  may  not  make  an  awk 
ward  pause  in  the  hall  of  his  friend's  house, 

1  am  sure  he  would  search  his  pocket  for  a 

13 


14  PRUE  AND  I. 

cent  to  give  the  wan  beggar  at  the  corner. 
It  is  impossible  just  now,  my  dear  woman  ; 
but  God  bless  you  ! 

It  is  pleasant  to  consider  that  simple  suit 
of  black.  If  my  man  be  young  and  only 
lately  cognizant  of  the  rigors  of  the  social 
law,  he  is  a  little  nervous  at  being  seen  in 
his  dress-suit — body  coat  and  black  trou 
sers — before  sunset.  For  in  the  last  days  of 
May  the  light  lingers  long  over  the  freshly 
leaved  trees  in  the  Square,  and  lies  warm 
along  the  Avenue.  All  winter  the  sun  has 
not  been  permitted  to  see  dress-coats.  They 
come  out  only  with  the  stars,  and  fade  with 
ghosts,  before  the  dawn.  Except,  haply, 
they  be  brought  homeward  before  breakfast 
in  an  early  twilight  of  hackney-coach.  Now, 
in  the  budding  and  bursting  summer,  the 
sun  takes  his  revenge,  and  looks  aslant  over 
the  tree-tops  and  the  chimneys  upon  the 
most  unimpeachable  garments.  A  cat  may 
look  upon  a  king. 

I  know  my  man  at  a  distance.  If  I  am 
chatting  with  the  nursery-maids  around  the 
fountain,  I  see  him  upo;i  the  broad  walk  of 


DINNER-TIME.  15 

Washington  Square,  and  detect  him  by  the 
freshness  of  his  movement,  his  springy  gait. 
Then  the  white  waistcoat  flashes  in  the  sun. 

"Go  on,  happy  youth,"  I  exclaim  aloud,  to 
the  great  alarm  of  the  nursery  maids,  who 
suppose  me  to  be  an  innocent  insane  person 
suffered  to  go  at  large,  unattended, — "go 
on,  and  be  happy  with  fellow  waistcoats 
over  fragrant  wines." 

It  is  hard  to  describe  the  pleasure  in  this 
amiable  spectacle  of  a  man  going  out  to  dine. 
I,  who  am  a  quiet  family  man,  and  take  a 
quiet  family  ^ut  at  four  o'clock  ;  or,  when  I 
am  detained  down  town  by  a  false  quantity 
in  my  figures,  who  run  into  Delmonico's  and 
seek  comfort  in  a  cutlet,  am  rarely  invited  to 
dinner  and  have  few  white  waistcoats.  In 
deed,  my  dear  Prue  tells  me  that  I  have  but 
one  in  the  world,  and  I  often  want  to  con 
front  my  eager  young  friends  as  they  bound 
along,  and  ask  abruptly,  "  What  do  you 
think  of  a  man  \vlio:u  0:13  white  waistcoat 
suffices  ? " 

By  the  time  I  have  eutea  my  modest  re 
past,  it  is  the  hour  for  the  diners-out  to 


36  PRUE  AND   I. 

appear.  If  the  day  is  unusually  soft  and 
sunny,  I  hurry  my  simple  meal  a  little,  that  I 
may  not  losa  any  of  my  favorite  spectacle. 
Then  I  saunter  o:it.  If  you  met  me  you 
would  see  that  I  am  also  clad  in  black.  But 
black  is  my  natural  color,  so  that  it  begets 
no  false  theories  concerning  my  intentions. 
Nobody,  meeting  me  in  full  black,  supposes 
that  I  am  going  to  dine  out.  That  somber 
hue  is  professional  with  me.  It  belongs  to 
bookkeepers  as  to  clergymen,  physicians* 
and  undertakers.  \  "We  wear  it  because  jye 
follow  solemn  callings.  Saving  men's  bodies 
and  souls,  or  keeping  the  machinery  of  busi 
ness  well  wound,  are  such  sad  professions 
that  it  is  becoming  to  drape  dolefully  those 
who  adopt  them.  ( 

I  wear  a  white'  cravat,  too,  but  nobody 
supposes  that  it  is  in  any  danger  of  being 
stained  by  Lafitte.  It  is  a  limp  cravat  with 
a  craven  tie.  It  has  none  of  the  dazzling 
dash  of  the  white  that  my  young  friends 
sport,  or,  I  should  s:iy,  snorted  ;  for  the 
white  cravat  is  no\v  ab:m;lm  ••»  1  to  the  somber 
professions  of  \v'i;c'i  I  K*V»!C\  ?Iy  young 


DIXXF.R-TIML.  \? 

friends  suspect  that  the  flunkeys  of  the  Brit 
ish  nobleman  \vear  such  ties,  and  they  have 
therefore,  discarded  them.  I  am  sorry  to 
remark,  also,  an  uneasiness,  if  not  downright 
skepticism, about  the  white  waistcoat.  Will 
it  extend  to  shirts,  I  ask  myself  with  sor 
row. 

I3ut  there  is  something  pleasanter  to  con 
template  during  these  quiet  strolls  of  mine, 
than  the  men  who  are  going  to  dine  out,  and 
that  is,  the  women.  They  roll  in  carriages 
to  the  happy  houses  which  they  shall  honor, 
and  I  strain  my  eyes  in  at  the  carriage  win 
dow  to  see  their  cheerful  faces  as  they  pass. 
I  have  already  dined ;  upon  beef  and  cab 
bage,  probably,  if  it  is  boiled  day.  I  am 
not  expected  at  the  table  to  which  Aurelia  is 
hastening,  yet  no  guest  there  shall  enjoy 
more  than  I  enjoy,  — nor  so  much,  if  he  con 
siders  the  meats  the  best  part  of  the  dinner. 
The  beauty  of  the  beauti t'ul  Aurelia  I  see  and 
worship  as  she  drives  by.  Tlie  vision  of 
many  beautiful  Anrelins  driving  t  >  dinner,  is 
the  mirage  of  that  pleasant  journey  of  mine 
alonir  the  avenue.  I  do  not  envy  the  Persian 


1 8  PRUE   AND    I. 

poets,  on  those  afternoons,  nor  long  to  be  uo. 
Arabian  traveler.  For  I  can  walk  that 
street,  finer  than  any  of  \vhich  the  Ispahan 
architects  dreamed  ;  and  I  can  see  sultanas 
as  splendid  as  the  enthusiastic  and  exag 
gerating  Orientals  describe. 

But  not  only  do  I  see  and  enjoy  A  uremia's 
beauty,  I  delight  in.  her  exquisite  attire.  In. 
these  warm  days  she  does  not  wear  comuch 
as  the  lightest  shawl.  She  is  clad  only  in 
spring  sunshine.  It  glitters  in  the  soft  dark 
ness  of  her  hair.  It  touches  the  diamonds, 
the  opals,  the  pearls,  that  cling  to  her  arms, 
and  neck,  and  fingers.  They  flash  back 
again,  and  the  gorgeous  silks  glisten,  and 
the  light  laces  flutter,  until  the  stately 
Aurelia  seems  to  me,  in  tremulous  radiance, 
swimming  by. 

I  doubt  whether  you  who  are  to  have 
the  inexpressible  pleasure  of  dining  with  her, 
and  even  of  sitting  by  her  side,  will  enjoy 
more  than  I.  For  my  pleasure  is  inexpress 
ible,  also.  And  it  is  in  this  greater  than 
yours,  that  I  see  all  the  beautiful  ones  who 
are  to  dine  at  various  tables,  while  you  only 


DINNER-TIME.  19 

see  your  own  circle,  although  that,  I  will  not 
deny,  is  the  most  desirable  of  all. 

Beside,  although  my  person  is  not  present 
at  your  dinner,  rny  fancy  is.  '  I  see  Aurelia's- 
curriuge  stop,  and  behold  white-gloved  serv 
ants  opening  wide  doors.  There  is  a  brief 
glimpse  of  magnificence  for  the  dull  eyes 
of  the  loiterers  outside  ;  then  the  door  closes. 
B:it  my  fancy  went  in  with  Aurelia.  With 
her,  it  looks  at  the  vast  mirror,  and  sur 
veys  her  form  at  length  in  the  Psyche- 
glass.  It  gives  the  final  shake  to  the  skirtr 
the  last  flirt  to  the  embroidered  handkerchief^ 
carefully  held,  and  adjusts  the  bouquet,  com 
plete  as  a  tropic  nestling  in  orange  leaves. 
It  descends  with  her,  and  marks  the  faint 
blush  upon  her  cheek  at  the  thought  of  her 
exceeding  beauty  ;  the  consciousness  of  the 
most  beautiful  woman,  that  the  most  beauti 
ful  woman  is  entering  the  room.  There  is 
the  momentary  hush,  the  subdued  greet 
ing,  the  quick  glance  of  the  Aurelias  who 
have  arrive;!  e:irlier,  and  who  perceive  in  a 
moment  the  hopeless  perfection  of  that- 
attire  ;  tlie  courtly  g::z3  of  gentlemen,  who 


2O  PRUE  AND   I. 

feel  the  serenity  of  that  beauty.      All  this 
my  fancy  surveys  ;  my  fancy,  Aurelia's  in 
visible  cavalier. 

You  approach  with  hat  in  hand  and  the 
thumb  of  your  left  hand  in  your  waistcoat 
pocket.  You  are  polished  and  cool,  and 
have  an  irreproachable  repose  of  manner. 
There  are  no  improper  wrinkles  in  your 
cravat ;  your  shirt-bosom  does  not  bulge ; 
the  trousers  are  accurate  about  your  ad 
mirable  boot.  But  you  look  very  stiff  and 
brittle.  You  are  a  little  bullied  by  your 
unexceptional  shirt-collar,  which  interdicts 
perfect  freedom  of  movement  in  your  head. 
You  are  elegant,  undoubtedly,  but  it  seems 
as  if  you  might  break  and  fall  to  pieces, 
like  a  porcelain  vase,  if  you  were  roughly 
shaken. 

Now,  here,  I  have  the  advantage  of  you. 
My  fancy  quietly  surveying  the  scene,  is 
subject  to  none  of  these  embarrassments. 
My  fancy  will  not  utter  commonplaces. 
That  will  not  say  to  the  superb  lady,  who 
stands  with  her  flowers,  incarnate  May, 
**  What  a  beautiful  day,  Miss  Aurelia." 


DINNER-TIME.  21 

That  will  not  feel  constrained  to  say  some 
thing,  when  it  has  nothing  to  say  ;  nor  will 
it  be  obliged  to  smother  all  the  pleasant 
things  that  occur,  because  they  would  be  too 
flattering  to  express.  My  fancy  perpetually 
murmurs  in  Aurelia's  ear,  "Those  flowers. 
"Would  not  be  fair  in  your  hand,  if  you  your 
self  were  not  fairer.  That  diamond  neck 
lace  would  be  gaudy,  if  your  eyes  were  not 
brighter.  That  queenly  movement  would  be 
awkward,  if  your  soul  were  not  queenlier." 

You  could  not  say  such  things  to  Aurelia,. 
although,  if  you  are  net  worthy  co  dine  Jit. 
her  si;le,  they  are  the  very  things  you  are- 
longing  to  sav.  What  insufferable  stuff  you 
are  talking  about  the  weather,  and  the  opera,, 
and  Alboni's  delicious  voice,  and  Newport,, 
and  Saratoga  !  They  are  all  verv  pleasant, 

O  •*  **       1 

subjects,  but  do  you  suppose  Ixion  talked 
Thessalian  politics  when  he  was  admitted  to- 
dine  with  Juno  1 

I  almost  begin  to  p'ty  you,  and  to  believe 
that  a  scarcity  of  wlr'to  waistcor-ts  h  tr::e 
wisdom.  Tor  no-v  >".\v;  ••  :s  ;nnnimr<><!,  jnul 
you,  O  rare  itl;c.ty,  are  to  hu.ul  down 


22  PRUE   AND   I. 

Aurelia.  But  you  run  the  risk  of  tumbling 
her  expansive  skirt,  and  you  have  to  drop 
your  hat  upon  a  chance  chair,  and  wonder, 
en  passant,  who  will  wear  it  home,  which  is 
annoying.  My  fancy  runs  no  such  risk;  is 
not  at  all  solicitous  about  its  hat,  and  glides 
l>y  the  side  of  Aurelia,  stately  as  she. 
There!  you  stumble  on  the  stair,  and  are 
vexed  at  your  own  awkwardness,  and  are 
sure  you  saw  the  ghost  of  a  smile  glimmer 
along  that  superb  face  at  your  side.  My 
fancy  doesn't  tumble  down-stairs,  and  what 
kind  of  looks  it  sees  upon  Aurelia's  face,  are 
its  own  secret. 

Is  it  any  better,  now  you  are  seated  at 
table  ?  Your  companion  eats  little  because 
she  wishes  little.  You  eat  little  because  you 
think  it  is  elegant  to  do  so.  It  is  a  shabby, 
second-hand  elegance,  like  your  brittle  be 
havior.  It  is  just  as  foolish  for  you  to  play 
with  the  meats,  when  you  ought  to  satisfy 
your  healthy  appetite  generously,  as  it  is  for 
you,  in  the  drawing-room,  to  atfect  that  cool 
indifference  when  you  have  real  and  noble 
interests. 


DINNER-TIME.  2$ 

I  grant  you  that  fine  manners,  if  you 
please,  are  a  fine  art.  But  is  not  monotony 
the  destruction  of  art?  Your  manners,  O 
happy  •  Ixion,  banqueting  with  Juno,  ar^ 
Egyptian.  They  have  no  perspective,  no 
variety.  They  havj  no  color,  no  shading 
They  are  all  on  a  dead  level  ;  th-;y  ara  fl.-l. 
Now,  for  you  ara  a  m:i:i  of  sense,  you  are 
conscious  that  those  wonderful  eyes  of 
Aurelia  s^e  straight  through  all  this  net 
work  of  elegant  manners  in  which  yoj  have 
entangled  yourself,  and  that  consciousness 
is  uncomfortable  to  you.  It  is  another  trick 
in  the  game  for  me,  because  those  eyes  do 
not  pry  into  my  fancy.  How  can  they, 
since  Aurelia  does  not  know  of  my  existence  ? 

Unless,  indeed,  she  should  remember  the 
first  time  I.  saw  her.  It  was  only  last  year, 
in  May.  I  had  dined,  somewhat  hastily,  in 
consideration  of  the  fine  day,  and  of  my 
confidence  that  many  would  be  wending 
dinnerwards  that  afternoon.  I  saw  my  Prue 
comfortably  engaged  in  seating  the  trousers- 
of  Adoniram,  our  eldest  boy — an  economical 
care  to  which  inv  <l:i ••'••"••  P;-ue  is  not  un- 


24  PRUE   AND   I. 

equal,  even  in  these  days  and  in  this  town — 
and  then  hurried  toward  the  avenue.  It  is 
never  much  thronged  at  that  hour.  The 
moment  is  sacred  to  dinner.  As  I  paused 
at  the  corner  of  Twelfth  Street,  by  the 
church,  Vou  re'msmbor,  I  saw  an  apple* 
woman,  from  whos3  stores  I  determined  to 
finish  my  dessert,  which  had  been  imperfect 
iit  horn,}.  But,  mindful  of  •  meritorious  and 
economical  Prue,  I  was  not  the  man  to  pay 
exorbitant  prices  for  apples,  and  while  still 
haggling  with  tho  wrinkled  Eve  who  had 
tempted  me,  I  became  suddenly  aware  of  a 
carriag ;  approaching,  and,  indeed,  already 
doss  by.  1  raisad  my  eyes,  still  munching 
-an  apple  which  I  held  in  one  hand,  while 
the  other  grasped  my  walking-stick  (true 
to  my  instincts  of  dinner  guests,  as  young 
women  to  a  passing  wedding  or  old  ones  to 
a  funeral),  and  beheld  Aurelia  ! 

Old  in  this  kind  of  observation  as  I  am, 
there  was  something  so  graciously  alluring 
in  the  look  that  she  cast  upon  me,  as  uncon 
sciously,  indeed,  as  she  would  have  cast  it 
upon  the  church,  that,  fumbling  hastily  for 


DINNER-TIME.  2*, 

my  spectacles  to  enjoy  the  boon  more  fully, 
I  thoughtlessly  advanced  upon  the  apple- 
stand,  and,  in  some  indescribable  manrer, 
tripping,  down  we  all  fell  into  the  street, old 
woman,  apples,  baskets,  stand,  and  I,  in  pro 
miscuous  confusion.  As  I  struggled  there,. 
somewhat  bewildered,  yet  sufficiently  self- 
possessed  to  look  after  the  carriage,  I  beheld, 
that  beautiful  woman  looking  at  us  through 
the  back-window  (you  could  not  have  dona 
it  ;  the  integrity  of  your  shirt-collar  would 
have  interfered,)  and  smiling  pleasantly,  so 
that  her  going  around  the  corner  was  like 
a  gentle  sunset,  so  seemed  she  to  disappear 
in  her  own  -smiling  ;  or — if  you  chooso,  in 
view  of  the  apple  difficulties — like  a  rainbow 
after  a  storm. 

If  the  beautiful  Aurelia  recalls  that  event, 
she  may  know  of  mv  existence  ;  not  other 
wise.  And  even  then  she  knows  me  only 
as  a  funny  old  gentleman,  who,  in  his  eager 
ness  to  look  at  her,  tumbled  over  an  apple- 
woman. 

My  fancy  from  that  moment  followed  her. 
How  grateful  I  was  to  the  wrinkled  Eve'* 


26  PRUE   AND   I. 

* 

extortion,  and  to  the  untoward  tumble, 
since  it  procured  me  the  sight  of  that  smile. 
I  took  my  sweet  revenge  from  that.  For 
I  knew  that  the  beautiful  Aurelia  entered 
the  house  of  her  host  with  beaming  eyes, 
and  my  fancy  h.\ird  her  sparkling  story. 
You  consider  yourself  happy  because  you  are 
sitting  by  her  and  helping  her  to  a  lady- 
finger,  or  a  macaroon,  for  which  she  smiles. 
But  I  was  her  theme  for  ten  mortal  minutes. 
She  was  my  bard,  my  blithe  historian.  She 
was  the  Homer  of  my  luckless  Trojan  fall. 
She  set  my  mishap  to  music,  in  telling  it. 
Think  what  it  is  to  have  inspired  Uraniu  .; 
to  have  called  a  brighter  beam  into  the  eyes 
of  Miranda,  and  do  not  think  so  much  of 
passing  Aurelia  the  mottoes,  my  dear  young 
friend. 

There  was  the  advantage  of  not  going  to 
that  dinner.  Had  I  been  invited,  as  you 
were,  I  should  have  pestered  Prue  about  the 
buttons  on  my  white  waistcoat,  instead  of 
leaving  her  plicidly  piecing  adolescent 
trousers.  She  would  have  been  flustered, 
fearful  of  being  too  late,  of  tumbling  the 


DINNER-TIME.  27 

garment,  of  soiling  it,  fearful  of  offending  me 
in  some  way,  (admirable  woman  !)  I,  in  my 
natural  impatience,  might  have  let  drop  a 
thoughtless  word,  which  would  have  been  a 
p:ing  in  her  heart  and  a  tear  in  her  eye,  for 
weeks  afterward. 

As  I  walked  nervously  up  the  avenue  (for 
I  am  unaccustomed  to  prandial  recreations), 
I  should  not  ha\Te  had  that  solacing  image 
of  quiet  Prue,  and  the  trousers,  as  the  back 
ground  in  the  pictures  of  the  gay  figures  I 
passed,  making  each,  by  contrast,  fairer.  I 
should  have  been  wondering  what  to  say  and 
<lo  at  the  dinner.  I  should  surely  have  been 
very  warm,  and  yet  not  have  enjoyed  the* 
rich,  waning  sunlight.  Need  I  tell  you  that 
I  should  not  have  stopped  for  apples,  but 
instead  of  economically  tumbling  into  the 
street  with  apples  and  apple-women,  where 
by  I  merely  rent  my  trousers  across  the 
knee,  in  a  manner  that  Prue  can  readily,  and 
at  little  cost,  repair,  I  should,  beyond  per- 
ad venture,  have  split  a  new  dollar-pair  of 
gloves  in  the  effort  of  straining  my  large 
hands  into  them,  which  would,  also,  have 


23  PRUE  AND  L 

caused  me  additional  redness  in  ahe  face,  and 
renewed  fluttering. 

Above  all,  I  should  .not  have  seen  Aurelia 
passing  in  her  carriage,  nor  would  she  have 
smilad  at  me,  nor  charmed  my  memory  with 
her  radiance,  nor  the  circle  at  dinner  with 
the  sparkling  Iliad  of  my  woes.  Then  ;it 
the  table,  I.  should  not  have  sat  by  her.  You 
would  have  had  that  pleasure  ;  I  should  have 
led  out  the  maiden  aunt  from  the  country, 
and  have  talked  poultry,  when  I  talked  at 
all.  Aurelia  would  not  have  remarked  me. 
Afterward,  in  describing  the  dinner  to  her 
virtuous  parents,  she  would  have  concluded, 
"and  one  old  gentleman,  whom  I  didn't 
know." 

No,  my  polished  friend,  whose  elegant 
repose  of  manner  I  yet  greatly  commend,  I 
am  content,  if  you  are.  How  much  better 
it  was  that  I  was  not  invited  to  that  dinner, 
but  was  permitted,  by  a  kind  fate, to  furnish 
a  subject  for  Aurelia's  wit. 

There  is  one  ot'ier  ndvnntage  in  sending 
your  fancy  to  dinner,  instead  of  going  your 
self.  It  is,  that  the;i  ti.'.o  occasion  remains 


DINNER-TIME.  2Q 

wholly  fair  in  your  memory.  You,  who 
devote  yourself  to  dining  out,,  and  who  are 
to  be  daily  seen  affably  sitting  down  to  such 
feasts,  as  I  know  mainly  by  hearsay — by 
the  report  of  waiters,  guests,  and  others  who 
were  present — you  cannot  escape  the  little 
things  that  spoil  the  picture,  and  which  the 
fancy  does  not  see. 

For  instance,  in  handing  you  \\\Q potage  a 
la  Bisque,  at  the  very  commencement  of 
this  dinner  to-day,  John,  the  waiter,  who 
never  did  such  a  thing  before,  did  this  time 
suffer  the  plate  to  tip,  so  that  a  little  of  that 
rare  soup  dripped  into  your  lap — just  enough 
to  spoil  those  trousers,  which  is  nothing  to 
you,  because  you  can  buy  a  great  many  more 
trousers,  but  which  little  event  is  inharmo 
nious  with  the  fine  porcelain  dinner  service, 
with  the  fragrant  wines,  the  glittering  glass, 
the  beautiful  guests,  and  the  mood  of  mind 
suggested  by  all  of  these.  There,  is  in  fact, 
if  you  will  pardon  a  free  use  of  the  vernac 
ular,  there  is  a  grease-spot  upon  your  re 
membrance  of  this  dinner, 

Or  in  the  same  way,  and  with  the  same 


•JO  TRUE   AND   I. 

kind  of  mental  result,  you  can  easily  imagine 
the  meats  a  little  tough ;  a  suspicion  of 
smoke  somewhere  in  -the  sauces ;  too  much 
pepper,  perhaps,  or  too  little  salt ;  or  there 
might  be  .the  graver  dissonance  of  claret  not 
properly  attempered,  or  a  choice  Rhenish 
below  the  average  mark,  or  the  spilling  of 
some  of  that  Arethusa  Madeira,  marvelous 
for  its  innumerable  circumnavigations  of  the 
globe,  and  for  being  as  dry  as  the  conversa 
tion  of  the  host.  TlieoC  things  arc  not  up 
to  the  high  level  of  the  dinner  ;  for  wherever 
Aurelia  dines,  all  accessories  should  be- as  per 
fect  in  their  kind  as  she,  the  principal,  is  in 
hers. 

That  reminds  me  of  «'i  possible  dissonance 
worse  than  all.  Suppose  that  soup  had 
trickled  down  t'.ie  unimaginable  Ixrthe  of 
Aurelia's  dress  (since  it  might  have  done 
so),  instead  of  wasting  itself  upon  your  trou 
sers  !  Could  even  the  irreproachable  ele 
gance  of  your  manners  have  contemplated, 
unmoved,  a  grease-spot  upon  your  remem 
brance  of  the  peerless  Aurelia  ? 

You  smile,  of  course,  and  remind  me  that 


DINNER-TIME.  3! 

that  lady's  manners  are  so  perfect  that,  if 
she  drank  poison,  she  would  wipe  her  mouth 
after  it  as  gracefully  as  ever.  How  much 
more  then,  you  say,  in  the  case  of  such  a 
slight  contretemps  rs  spotting  her  dress, 
would  she  app^ii1  totally  unmoved. 

So  s!io  would,  undoubtedly.  She  would 
be,  a:;d  look,  as  pure  as  ever ;  bu',  my  young 
friend,  her  dress  would  not.  Once,  I  dropped 
a  pickled  oyster  in  the  lap  of  my  Prua,  who 
wore,  on  the  occasion,  her  sea-green  silk 
gown.  I  did  not  love  my  Prue  the  less  ;  but 
there  certainly  was  a  very  unhandsome  spot 
upon  her  dress.  And  although  I  know  my 
Prue  to  bo  spotless,  yet,  whenever  I  recall  that 
day,  I  see  her  in  a  spotted  gown,  and  I  would 
prefer  never  to  hava  been  obliged  to  think 
of  hor  in  such  a  garment. 

Can  you  not  make  the  application  to  the 
case,  very  likely  to  happen,  of  some  disfig 
urement  of  that  exquisite  toilet  of  Aurelin's? 
In  going  down-stairs,  for  instance,  why 
should  not  heavy  eld  Mr.  Carbuncle,  who  is 
Coming  olos«  lv»huH  wit'i  Mr;.  Peonv,  both 
very  eagjr  for  dinner,  tread  upon  the  hem 


32  PRUE   AND   I. 

of  that  garment  which  my  lips  would  prow 
pale  to  kiss  ?  The  august  Aurelia,  yielding 
to  natural  laws,  would  be  drawn  suddenly 
backward — a  very  undignified  movement — 
and  the  dress  would  be  dilapidated.  There 
would  be  apologies,  and  smiles,  and  forgive 
ness,  and  pinning  up  the  pieces,  nor  would 
tluro  be  the  faintest  feeling  of  awkward 
ness  or  vexation  in  Aurelia's  mind.  But  to 
y  ju,  looking  on,  and,  beneath  all  that  pure 
show  of  waistcoat,  cursing  old  Carbuncle's 
carelessness,  this  tearing  of  dresses  and  re 
pair  of  the  toilet  is  by  no  means  a  poetic 
and  cheerful  spectacle.  Nay,  the  very  im 
patience  that  it  produces  in  your  mind  jars 
upon  the  harmony  of  the  moment. 

You  will  respond,  with  proper  scorn,  that 
vou  are  not  so  absurdly  fastidious  as  to  heed 
the  little  necessary  drawback's  of  social  meet 
ings,  and  that  you  have  not  much  regard  for 
"  the  harmony  of  the  occasion"  (which  phrase 
I  fear  you  will  repeat  in  a  sneering  tone). 
You  will  do  very  right  in  sr.ying  this:  and 
it  is  a  remark  to  which  I  s'lall  give  all  the 
hospitality  of  my  mind,  and  I  do  so  because 


DINNER-TIME.  33 

» 

I  heartily  coincide  in  it.  I  hold  a  man  to 
be  very  .foolish  who  will  not  eat  a  good  din 
ner  because  the  tablecloth  is  not  clean,  or 
who  cavils  at  the  spots  upon  the  sun.  But 
still  a  man  who  does  not  apply  his  eye  to  a 
telescope  or  some  kind  of  prepared  medium, 
does  not  see  those  spots,  while  he  has  just  as 
much  light  and  heat  as  he  who  does. 

So  it  is  with  me.  I  walk  in  the  avenue, 
and  eat  all  the  delightful  dinners  without 
seeing  the  spots  upon  the  tablecloth,  and 
behold  all  the  beautiful  Aurelias  without 
swearing  at  old  Carbuncle.  I  am  the  guest 
who,  for  the  small  price  of  invisibility, 
drinks  only  the  best  wines,  and  talks  only 
to  the  most  agreeable  people.  That  is 
something,  I  can  tell  you,  for  you  might  be 
asked  to  lead  out  old  Mrs.  Peony.  My  fancy 
slips  in  between  you  and  Aurelia,  sityou  never 
so  closely  together.  It  not  only  hears  what 
she  says,  b'lt  it  perceives  what  she  thinks 
and  fed.;.  It  lies  like  a  bw  i:i  her  flowery 
thor.ghfs,  sucking  all  their  honey.  If  there 
are  unhandsome  or  unfeeling gnofita  at  table, 
it  v:'l  not  see  the:n.  It  knows  only  the 


34  PRUE   AND  I, 

good  and  fair.  As  I  stroll  in  the  fading 
light  and  observe  the  stately  houses,  my 
fancy  believes  the  host  equal  to  his  house, 
and  the  courtesy  of  his  wife  nioiv  agr<'(  ;.ble 
than  her  conservatory.  It  will  not  believe 
that  the  pictures  on  the  wall  and  the  st  tr.es 
in  the  corners  shame  the  guests.  It  will  not 
allow  that  they  are  less  than  noble.  It 
hears  them  speak  gently  ol  error,  r.nd 
warmly  of  worth.  It  knows  that  they  com 
mend  heroism  and  devotion,  and  reprobate 
insincerity.  My  fancy  is  convinced  that 
the  guests  are  not  only  feasted  upon  the 
choicest  fruits  of  every  land  and  season,  but 
are  refreshed  by  a  consciousness  of  greater 
loveliness  and  grace  in  human  character. 

Now  you,  who  actually  go  to  the  dinner,- 
may  not  entirely  agree  with  the  view  my 
fancy  takes  of  that  entertainment.  Is  it  not, 
therefore,  rather  your  loss  ?  Or,  to  put  it  in 
another  way,  ought  I  to  envy  you  the  dis 
covery  that  the  guests  are  shamed  by  th'> 
statues  and  pictures ; — yes,  and  by  the 
spoons  and  forivs  also,  if  they  should  chance 
neither  to  be  so  genuine  nor  so  useful  as 


DINNER-TIME.  35 

those  instruments  ?  And,  worse  than  this, 
when  your  fancy  wishes  to  enjoy  the  picture 
which  mine  forms  of  that  feast,  it  cannot  do 
so,  because  you  have  foolishly  interpolated 
the  fact  between  the  dinner  and  your 
fancy. 

Of  course,  by  this  time  it  is  late  twilight, 
and  the  spectacle  I  enjoyed  is  almost  over. 
But  not  quite,  for  as  I  return  slowly  along 
the  streets,  the  windows  are  open,  and  only 
a  thin  ha/o  of  lace  or  muslin  separates  me 
from  the  Paradise  within. 

I  see  the  graceful  cluster  of  girls  hovering 
over  ,tho  piano,  and  the  quiet  groups  of  the 
elders  in  easy -chairs,  around  little  tables. 
I  cannot  hear  what  is  said,  nor  plainly  see 
the  faces.  But  some  hoyden  evening  wind, 
moro glaring  than  I,  abruptly  parts  the  cloud 
to  look  in,  and  out  comes  a  gush  of  light, 
music,  and  fragrance,  so  that  I  shrink  away 
into  the  dark,  that  I  may  not  seem,  even  by 
chance,  to  have  invaded  that  privac}T. 

Suddenly  there  is  singing.  It  is  Aurelia, 
who  does  not  cope  with  the  Italian  Prima 
Donna,  nor  sing  indifferently  to-night,  what 


36  PRUE   AND   I. 

was  sung  superbly  last  evening  at  the  opera. 
She  has  a  strange,  low,  sweet  voice,  as  if 
she  only  sang  in  the  twilight.  It  is  the 
ballad  of  "  Allan  Percy  "  that  she  sings. 
There  is  no  dainty  applause  of  kid  gloves, 
when  it  is  ended,  but  silence  follows  the 
singing,  like  a  tear. 

Then  you,  my  young  friend,  ascend  into 
tho  drawing-room,  and,  after  a  little  grace 
ful  gossip,  retire ;  or  you  wait,  possibly,  to 
hand  Aurelia  into  her  carriage,  and  to  ar 
range  a  waltz  for  to-morrow  evening.  She 
smiles,  you  bow,  and  it  is  over.  But  it  is 
not  yet  over  with  me.  My  fancy  still  follows 
her,  and,  like  a  prophetic  dream,  rehearses 
her  destiny.  For,  as  the  carriage  rolls  a\\  ;.y 
into  the  darkness  and  I  return  homewards, 
how  can  my  fancy  help  rolling  away  also, 
into  the  dim  future,  watching  her  go  down 
the  years  ? 

Upon  my  way  home  I  see  her  in  a  thou 
sand  new  situations.  My  fancy  says  to  me, 
*'  The  beauty  of  this  beautiful  woman  is 
heaven's  stamp  upon  virtue.  She  will  be 
equal  to  every  chance  that  shall  befall  her, 


DINNER-TIME.  3f 

and  she  is  so  radiant  and  charming  in  the 
circle  of  prosperity,  only  because  she  has 
that  irresistible  simplicity  and  fidelity  of 
character,  which  can  also  pluck  the  sting 
from  adversity.  Do  you  not  see,  you  wan. 
cli I  bookkeeper  in  faded  cravat,  that  in  a 
poor  man's  house  this  superb  Aurelia  would 
be  more  stately  than  sculpture,  more  beauti 
ful  than  painting,  and  more  graceful  than 
the  famous  vases.  Would  her  husband  re 
gret  the  opera  if  she  sang  '  Allan  Percy  '  to 
him  in  the  twilight?  Would  ho  not  feel 
richer  than  the  Poets,  when  his  eves  rose 
from  their  jeweled  pages,  to  fall  again  daz 
zled  by  the  splendor  of  his  Avife's  beauty  ?" 

At  this  point  in  my  reflections  I  some 
times  run,  rather  violently,  against  a  lamp 
post,  and  then  proceed  along  the  street  more 
sedately. 

It  is  yet  early  when  I  reach  home,  where 
my  Prue  awaits  me.  The  children  are  asleep, 
and  the  trousers  mended.  The  admirable 
woman  is  patient  of  my  idjosjncrasies,  and 
asks  me  if  I  have  had  a  pleasant  walk,  and 
if  there  were  many  line  dinners  to-day,  as 


38  PRUE   AND    I. 

if  I  had  been  expected  at  a  dozen  tables. 
She  even  asks  me  if  I  have  seen  the  beauti 
ful  Aurelia  (for  there  is  always  some  Aurelia,) 
and  inquires  what  dress  she  wore.  I  re 
spond,  and  dilate  upon  what  I  have  seen. 
Prue  listens,  as  the  children  listen  to  her 
fairy  tales.  AVe  discuss  the  little  stories 
that  penetrate  our  retirement,  of  the  great 
people  who  actually  dine  out.  Prue,  with 
iine  womanly  instinct,  declares  it  is  a  shame 
that  Aurelia  should  smile  for  a  moment 
upon  -  — ,  yes,  even  upon  you,  my  friend 
of  the  irreproachable  manners! 

"  I  know  him,"  says  my  simple  Prue ;  "  I 
have  watched  his  cold  courtesy,  his  insincere 
devotion.  I  have  seen  him  acting  in  the 
boxes' at  the  opera,  much  more  adroitly  than 
the  singers  upon  the  stage.  I  have  read  his 
determination  to  marry  Aurelia  ;  and  I  shall 
not  be  surprised,"  concludes  my  tender  wife, 
sadly,  "  if  he  wins  her  at  last,  by  tiring  her 
•out,  or,  by  secluding  her  by  his  constant 
•devotion  from  the  homage  of  other  men,  con 
vinces  IKT  thnt  f  lw>  Ind  better  marry  him, 
since  it  u  so  tlis;:;ai  to  live  on  unmarried." 


DINNER-TIME.  39 

And  so,  my  friend,  at  the  moment  when 
the  bouquet  you  ordered  is  arriving  at 
Aurelia's  house,  and  she  is  sitting  before  the 
glass  while  her  maid  arranges  the  last  flower 
in  her  hair,  my  darling  Prue,  whom  you  will 
never  hear  of,  is  shedding  warm  tears  over 
your  probable  union,  and  I  am  sitting  by, 
adjusting  my  cravat  and  incontinently  clear 
ing  my  throat. 

It  is  rather  a  ridiculous  business,  I  allow  ; 
yet  you  will  smile  at  it  tenderly,  rather  than 
scornfully,  if  you  remember  that  it  shows 
how  closely  linked  we  human  creatures  are, 
without  knowing  it,  and  that  more  hearts 
than  we  dream  of  enjoy  our  happiness  and_ 
share  our  sorrow. 

Thus,  I  dine  at  great  tables  uninvited  and 
unknown,  converse  with  the  famous  beauties. 
If  Aurelia  is  at  last  engaged,  (but  who  is. 
worthy  ?)  she  will,  with  even  greater  care, 
arrange  that  wondrous  toilette,  will  teach 
that  lace  a  fall  more  alluring,  those  gems  a. 
sweeter  light.  But  even  then,  as  she  rolls 
to  dinner  in  her  carriage,  glad  that  she  is 
fair,  not  for  h-T  '>•••  -,  <•  i!;-  nor  for  the  world's, 


40  PRUE   AND   I. 

but  for  that  of  a  single  youth  (who,  I  hope, 
has  not  been  smoking  at  the  club  all  the 
morning),  I,  sauntering  upon  the  sidewalk, 
see  her  pass,  I  pay  homage  to  her  beauty, 
and  her  lover  can  do  no  more ;  and  if,  per 
chance,  my  garments— which  must  seem 
quaint  to  her,  with  their  shining  knees  and 
carefully  brushed  elbows  ;  my,  white  cravat, 
careless,  yet  prim  ;  my  meditative  movement, 
as  I  put  my  stick  und^r  my  arm  to  pare  an 
apple,  and  not,  I  hope,  this  time  to  fall  into 
the  street, — should  remind  her,  in  her  spring 
of  youth,  and  beaut}',  and  love,  that  there 
are  age,  and  care,  and  poverty,  also;  then, 
perhaps,  the  good  fortune  of  the  meeting  is 
not  wholly  mine. 

"  For,  O  beautiful  Aurelia,  two  of  these 
things,  at  least,  must  come  even  to  you. 
There  will  be  a  time  when  you  will  no  longer 
go  out  to  dinner,  or  only  very  quietly,  in  the 
family.  I  shall  be  gone  then  :  but  other  old 
bookkeepers  in  white  cravats  will  inherit 
ray  tastes,  and  saunter,  on  summer  after 
noons,  to  see  what  I  loved  to  see. 

They  will -not  pause,  I  fear,  in  buying  ap- 


DINNER-TIME.  4! 

pies,  to  look  at  the  old  lady  in  venerable  cap, 
who  is  rolling  by  in  the  carriage.  They  will 
worship  another  Aurelia.  You  will  not  wear 
diamonds  or  opals  any  more,  only  one  pcari 
upon  your  blue-veined  linger — your  engage 
ment  ring.  Grave  clergymen  and  antiquated 
beaux  will  hand  you  down  to  dinner,  and 
the  group  of  polished  youth,  who  gather 
around  the  yet  unborn  Aurelia  of  that  day, 
will  look  at  you,  sitting  quietly  upon  the 
sofa,  and  say,  softly,  "  She  must  have  been 
very  handsome  in  her  time." 

All  this  must  bo :  for  consider  how  few 
years  since  it  was  your  grandmother  who 
was  the  belle,  by  whose  side  the  handsome 
young  men  longed  to  sit  and  pass  expressive 
mottoes.  Your  grandmother  was  the  Aurelia 
cf  a  half-centurv  ago,  although  vou  cannot 

%>  O         7  O  t/ 

fancy  her  young.  She  is  indissolubly  asso 
ciated  in  your  mind  with  caps  and  dark 
dresses.  You  can  believe  Mary  Queen  of 
Scots,  or  Nell  Gwyn,  or  Cleopatra,  to  have 
been  young  and  blooming* although  they  be 
long  to  old  and  dea  1  centuries,  but  not  your 
grandmother.  Think  of  those  who 


42  PRUE   AND   I. 

believe  the  same  of  yon — you,  who  to-day  are 
the  very  flower  of  youth. 

Might  I  plead  with  you,  Aurelia — I,  who 
•would  be  too  happy  to  receive  one  of  those 
graciously  beaming  bows  that  I  see  you  be 
stow  upon  young  men,  in  passing, — I  would 
ask  you  to  bear  that  thought  with  you, 
always,  not  to  sadden  your  sunny  smile,  but  to 
give  it  a  more  subtle  grace.  Wear  in  your 
summer  garland  this  little  leaf  of  rue.  It 
will  not  be  the  skull  at  the  feast,  it  will  rather 
be  the  tender  thoughtfulness  in  the  face  of 
the  young  Madonna. 

For  the  years  pass  like  summer  clouds, 
Aurolia,  and  the  children  of  yesterday  are 
the  wives  and  mothers  of  to-day.  Even  I  do 
sometimes  discover  the  mild  eyes  of  my 
Prue  iixed  pensively  upon  my  face,  as  if 
searching  for  the  bloom  which  she  remem 
bers  there  in  the  days  long  ago,  when  we 
were  vounir.  She  will  never  see  it  there 

•/  ^j 

again,  an^  more  than  the  flowers  she  held 
in  her  hand,  in  oui'oll  spring  rambles.  Yet 
the  tenr  that  slowly  «:at!K-rs  as  she  giizes,  is 
not  grief  that  t!r>  hloovi  \\  -s  !'a .led  from  my 


DINNER-TIME.  43 

cheek,  but  the  sweet  consciousness  that  it 
can  never  fade  from  my  heart ;  and  as  her 
eyes  fall  upon  her  work  again,  or  the  children 
climb  her  lap  to  hear  the  old  fairy-tales  they 
already  know  by  heart,  my  wife  Prue  is 
dearer  to  me  than  the  sweetheart  of  those 
days  long  ago. 


MY  CHATEAUX, 


**In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 
A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree." 

Coleridge, 


MY  CHATEAUX. 

<?  In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 
A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree." 

Coleridge. 

I  AM  the  owner  of  great  estates.  Many 
of  tliern  lie  in  the  West ;  but  the  greater 
part  are  in  Spain.  You  may  see  my  western 
possessions  any  evening  at  sunset  when  their 
spires  and  battlements  flash  against  the 
horizon. 

It  gives  me  a  feeling  of  pardonable  im 
portance,  as  a  proprietor,  that  they  are 
visible,  to  mv  eves  at  least,  from  any  part 

v  *  *.         1 

of  the  world  in  which  I  chance  to  be.  In 
my  long  voyage  around  the  Cape  of  Good 
Hope  to  India  (the  only  voyage  I  ever 
made,  when  I  was  a  boy  and  a  supercargo), 
if  I  fell  home-sick,  or  sank  into  a  reverie  of 
all  the  pleasant  homes  I  had  left  behind,  I 
had  but  to  wait  until  sunset,  and  then  look 
ing  toward  the  west,  I  l-eheld  my  clustering 

47 


48  PRUE  AND   I. 

pinnacles  and  towers  brightly  burnished  as 
if  to  salute  and  welcome  me. 

So,  in  the  city,  if  I  get  vexed  and  wearied, 
and  cannot  find  my  wonted  solace  in  sallying 
forth  at  dinner-time  to  contemplate  the  gay 
world  ot  youth  and  beauty  hurrying  to  the 
congress  of  fashion, — or  if  I  observe  that 
years  are  deepening  their  trades  around  the 
eyes  of  my  wife,  Prue,  I  go  quietly  up  to 
the  housetop,  toward  evening,  and  refresh 
myself  with  a  distant  prospect  of  my  estates. 
It  is  as  dear  to  me  as  that  of  Eton  to  the 
poet  Gray  ;  and,  if  I  sometimes  wonder  at 
such  moments  whether  I  shall  find  those 
realms  as  fair  as  they  appear,  I  am  suddenly 
reminded  that  the  night  air  may  be  noxious, 
and  descending,  I  enter  the  little  parlor 
where  Prue  sits  stitching,  and  surprise  that 
precious  woman  by  exclaiming  with  the 
poet's  pensive  enthusiasm  : 

"  Thought  would  destroy  their  Paradise, 
No  more  ; — where  ignorance  is  bliss, 
Tis  folly  to  be  wise." 

Columbus,  also,  had  possessions  in  the 
West;  and  as  I  read  aloud  the  romantic 


MY   CHATEAUX.  49- 

story  of  hip  life,  my  voice  quivers  when  I 
come  to  the  point  in  which  it  is  related  that 
sweet  odors  of  the  land  mingled  with  the 
sea-air,  as  the  admiral's  fleet  approached  the 
shores ;  that  tropical  birds  flew  out  and 
fluttered  around  the  ships,  glittering  in  the 
sun,  the  gorgeous  promises  of  the  new  coun 
try  ;  that  boughs,  perhaps  with  blossoms 
not  ;-ll  (lecnvcd,  floated  out  to  welcome  the 
st iv.r: jo  v.os/d  lYom  which  the  craft  were 
hollowed.  Then  I  cannot  restrain  myself. 
I  think  of  the  gorgeous  visions  I  have  seen 
before  I  have  even  undertaken  the  journey 
to  the  West,  and  I  cry  aloud  to  Prue : 

"  What  sun-bright  birds,  and  gorgeous 
blossoms,  and  celestial  odors  will  float  out 
to  us,  my  Prue,  as  we  approach  our  western 
possessions ! " 

The  placid  Prue  raises  her  eyes  to  mine 
with  a  reproof  so  delicate  that  it  could  not 
ba  trusted  to  words  ;  and,  after  a  moment, 
she  resumes  her  knitting  and  I  proceed. 

These  arc  my  western  estates,  but  my 
finest  castles  are  in  Spain.  It  is  a  country 
famously  romantic,  and  my  castles  are  all  of 


50  PRUE  AND   I. 

perfect  proportions,  and  appropriately  set 
in  the  most  picturesque  situations.  I  have 
never  been  to  Spain  myself,  but  I  have 
naturally  conversed  much  with  travelers  to 
that  country ;  although,  I  must  allo\v,  with 
out  deriving  from  them  much  substantial 
information  about  my  property  there.  The 
wisest  of  them  told  me  that  there  were 
more  holders  of  real  estate  in  Spain  than  in 
any  other  region  he  had  ever  heard  of,  and 
they  are  all  great  proprietors.  Every  one 
of  them  possesses  a  multitude  of  the  state 
liest  castles.  From  conversation  with  them 
you  easily  gather  that  each  one  considers 
his  own  castles  much  the  largest  and  in  the 
loveliest  positions.  And,  after  I  had  heard 
this  said,  I  verified  it,  by  discovering  that 
all  my  immediate  neighbors  in  the  city  were 
great  Spanish  proprietors. 

One  da}T  as  I  raised  imT  head  from  enter 
ing  some  long  and  tedious  accounts  in  my 
books,  and  began  to  reflect  that  the  quarter 
was  expiring,  and  that  I  must  begin  to  pre 
pare  the  balance-sheet,  I  observed  my  sub 
ordinate,  in  office  but  not  in  years,  (for  poor 


MY   CHATEAUX,  5F 

old  Titbottom  will  never  see  sixty  again !} 
leaning  on  his  Land,  and  much  abstracted. 

"Are  you  not  well,  Titbottom?"  asked  I. 

"  Periactly,  but  1  was  just  building  a. 
castle  in  Spain,"  said  he. 

I  looked  at  his  rusty  coat,  his  faded  h::r.  's, 
his  sad  eye,  and  white  hair,  for  a  ino:::...i. 
in  great  surprise,  a:ul  then  inquired, 

"  Is  it  ])ossible  that  you  own  property 
there  too  ?" 

He  shook  his  head  silently  ;  and  still  lean 
ing  0:1  his  hand,  and  with  an  expression  in 
his  eye,  as  if  he  were  looking  upon  the  most 
fertile  estate  of  Andalusia,  he  went  on 
making  his  plans  ;  laving  out  his  gardens,  I. 
suppose,  building  terraces  for  the  vines,, 
determining  a  library  with  a  southern  ex 
posure,  and  resolving  which  should  be  the 
tapestried  chamber. 

';  What  a  singular  whim,"  thought  I,  as 
I  watched  Titbottom  and  filled  up  a  check 
for  four  hundred  dollars,  my  quarterly 
salary,  "that  a  man  who  owns  castles  in 
Spain,  should  be  deputy  bookkeeper  at  nine; 
hundred  dollars  a  year  !  " 


52  PRUE   AND   I. 

When  I  went  home  I  ate  my  dinner  si 
lently,  and  afterward  sat  for  a  long  time 
upon  the  roof  of  the  house,  looking  at 
my  western  property,  and  thinking  of  Tit- 
.bottom. 

It  is  remarkable  that  none  of  the  pro 
prietors  have  ever  been  to  Spain  to  take 
possession  and  report  to  the  rest  of  uS  the 
state  of  our  property  there.  I,  of  course, 
•cannot  go,  1  am  too  much  engaged.  So  is 
Titbottom,  And  I  find  it  is  the  case  with 
all  the  proprietors.  AVe  have  so  much  to 
dot;iin  us  at  homo  that  we  cannot  get  away. 
But  it  is  always  so  \\ith  rich  men.  Prue 
.-sighed  onco  as  she  sat  ;:t  the  window  and 
s;i\v  Bourne,  the  millionaire,  the  President  of 
innumerable  companies,  and  manager  and 
director  of  all  the  charitable  societies  in  town, 
.going  by  with  wrinkled  brow  and  hurried 
«tep.  I  asked  her  why  she  sighed. 

"  Because  I  was  remembering  that  my 
mother  used  to  tell  me  not  to  desire  great 
riches,  for  they  occasioned  great  cares,'* 
said  she. 

"  They  do  indeed,"  answered  I,  with  era- 


MY   CHATEAUX.  53 

phasis,  remembering  Titbottom,  and  the 
impossibility  of  looking  after  my  Spanish, 
estates. 

Prue  turned  and  looked  at  me  with  mild 
surprise  ;  but  I  saw  that  her  mind  had  gone 
down  the  street  with  Bourne.  I  could  never 
discover  if  he  held  much  Spanish  stock. 
But  I  think  lie  does.  All  the  Spanish  pro 
prietors  have  a  certain  expression.  Bourne 
lias  it  to  a  remarkable  degree.  It  is  a  kind 
of  look,  as  if,  in  fact,  a  man's  mind  were  in 
Spain.  Bourne  was  an  old  lover  of  Pruc's, 
and  he  is  not  married,  which  is  strange  for 
a  man  in  his  position. 

It  is  not  easy  for  me  to  say  how  I  know 
so  much,  as  I  certainly  do,  about  my  castles 
in  Spain.  The  sun  always  shines  upon  them. 
They  stand  lofty  and  fair  in  a  luminous,, 
golden  atmosphere,  a  little  hazy  and  dreamy,, 
perhaps,  like  the  Indian  summer,  but  in  which 
no  gales  blow  and  there  arc  no  tempests. 
All  the  sublime  mountains,  and  beautiful 
vadeys,  and  soft  landscape,  that  I  have  not 
yet  seen,  are  t<>  bo  found  in  the  grounds. 
They  comman-l  a  noble  view  of  the  Alps;  so- 


54  PRUE    AND    I. 

fine,  indeed,  that  I  should  be  quite  content 
with  the  prospect  of  them  from  the  highest 
tower  of  my  castle,  and  not  care  to  go  to 
Switzerland. 

The  neighboring  ruins,  too,  are  as  pictur- 
^?que  as  those  of  Italy,  and  my  desire  of 
st.inding  in  the  Coliseum,  and  of  seeing  the 
shuttered  arches  of  the  Aqueducts  stretching 
.along  the  Campagna  and  melting  into  the 
Alban  Mount,  is  entirely  quenched.  The 
rich  gloom  of  my  orange  groves  is  gilded  by 
fruit  as  brilliant  of  complexion  ana  exquisite" 
•of  flavor  as  any  that  ever  dark-eyed  Sor- 
ronto  girls,  looking  over  the  high  plastered 
walls  of  southern  Italy,  hand  to  the  youth 
ful  travelers,  climbing  on  donkeys  up  the 
narrow  lane  beneath. 

The  Nile  flows  through  my  grounds.  The 
Dfsert  lies  upon  their  edge,  and  Damascus 
tst;inds  in  my  gmlen.  I  am  given  to  under 
stand,  also,  that  the  Parthenon  has  been 
removed  to  my  Spanish  possessions.  The 
Golden-lion  is  my  fi si i -preserve  ;  my  flocks 
of  goMe-i  fierce  sire  p"sf<ired  on  the  plain  of 
-Marathon,  and  the  honey  of  Ilymettus  is 


MY   CHATEAUX.  55 

distilled  from  the  flowers  that  grow  in 
the  vale  of  Enna — all  in  my  Spanish  co- 
mains. 

From  the  windows  of  those  castles  lock  the 
beautiful  women  whom  I  have  never  seen. 
whooj  portraits  the  poets  l.ave  painted. 
They  wait  for  me  there,  and  chiefly  the  fair 
haired  child,  lost  to  my  eyes  so  long  "go, 
no.v  bloomed,  into  an  impossible  beauty. 
The  lights  that  never  shone,  glance  at  ev<  n- 
inj  in  the  vaulted  halls,  upon  banquets  that 
were  never  spread.  The  bands  I  have  never 
collected,  play  all  night  long,  and  er,ch:i:it 
the  brilliant  company,  that  was  never  as 
sembled,  into  silence. 

In  the  long  summer  mornings  the  children 
that  I  never  had,  play  in  the  gardens 
that  I 'never  planted.  I  hear  their  sweet 
voices  sounding  low  and  far  away,  calling 
"Father!  Father!"  I  see  the  lost  fair- 
haired  girl,  grown  now  into  a  woman,  de 
scending  the  stately  stairs  of  my  castle  in 
Spain,  stepping  out  upon  the  lawn,  and 
playing  vi'li  those  children.  They  bound 
away  together  (!ow:i  the  garden  ;  but  those 


56  PRUE   AND    I. 

voices  linger,  this  time  airily  calling, 
*'  Mother !  mother !  " 

But  there  is  a  stranger  magic  than  this  in 
my  Spanish  estates.  The  lawny  slopes  on 
which,  when  a  child,  I  played,  in  my  father's 
old  country  place  which  was  sold  when  he 
failed,  are  all  there,  and  not  a  flower  faded, 
nor  a  blade  of  grass  sere.  The  green  leaves 
have  not  fallen  from  thfi  spring  \\  oods  of  half 
a  century  ago,  and  a  gorgeous  autumn  lias 
blazed  undimmed  for  fifty  years,  among  the 
trees  I  remember. 

Chestnuts  are  not  especially  sweet  to  my 
palate  now,  but  those  with  which  I  used  to 
prick  my  fingers  when  gathering  them  in 
New  Hampshire  woods  are  exquisite  as  ever 
to  my  taste,  when  I  think  of  eating  them  in 
Spain.  I  never  ride  horseback  now  at  home  ; 
but  in  Spain,  when  I  think  of  it,  I  bound 
over  all  the  fences  in  the  country,  bare 
backed  upon  the  wildest  horses.  Sermons 
I  am  apt  to  find  a  little  soporific  in  this 
country ;  but  in  Spain  I  should  listen  as  rev 
erently  as  ever,  for  proprietors  must  set  a 
good  example  on  tiicir  estates. 


MY   CHATEAUX.  57 

Plavs  are  insufferable  to  me  here — Prue 
and  I  never  go.  Prue,  indeed,  is  not  quito 
sure  it  is  moral ;  but  the  theaters  in  my 
Spanish  castles  are  of  a  prodigious  splendor,, 
and  when  I  think  of  going  there,  Prue  sits 
IH  a  front  box  with  me — a  kind  of  royal  box 
—the  good  woman,  attired  in  such  wise  as 
I  have  never  seen  her  here,  while  I  wear  my 
white  waistcoat,  which  in  Spain  has  no 
appearance  of  mending,  but  dazzles  with, 
immortal  newness,  and  is  a  miraculous  fit. 

Yes,  and  in  those  castles  in  Spain,  Prue  is 
not  the  placid,  breeches-patching  helpmate, 
with  whom  you  are  acquainted,  but  her  face 
has  a  bloom  which  we  both  remember,  and 
her  movement  a  grace  whidi  my  Spanish, 
swans  emulate,  and  her  voice  a  music  sweeter 
than  those  that  orchestras  discourse.  She 
is  always  there  what  she  seemed  to  me  when 
I  fell  in  love  with  her,  many  and  many  years 
ago.  The  neighbors  culled  her  then  a  nice, 
capable  girl  ;  and  certainly  she  did  knit  and 
darn  with  a  zeal  and  success  to  which  my 
feet  and  my  legs  have  testified  for  nearly 
half  a  century.  But  she  could  spin  a  finer 


58  PRUE   AND   I. 

web  than  ever  came  from  cotton,  and  in  its 
subtle  meshes  my  heart  was  entangled,  and 
there  has  reposed  softly  and  happily  ever 
.since.  The  neighbors  declared  she  could 
iihike  pudding  and  cake  better  than  any  girl 
of  her  age  ;  but  stale  bread  from  Prue's  hand 
was  ambrosia  to  my  palate. 

"  She  who  makes  everything  well,  even  to 
making  neighbors  speak  \vell  of  her,  will 
surely  make  a  good  wife,"  said  1  to  myself 
when  I  knew  her  ;  and  the  echo  of  a  half 
3?ntury  answers,  "  a  good  wife." 

So,  when  I  meditate  my  Spanish  castles, 
I  see  Prue  in  them  as  my  heart  saw  her 
standing  by  her  father's  door.  "  Age  can 
not  wither  her."  There  is  a  magic  in  the 
Spanish  air  that  paralyzes  Time.  He  glides 
by,  unnoticed  and  unnoticing.  I  greatly 
admire  the  Alps,  which  I  soe  so  distinctly 
"from  my  Spanish  windows  ;  I  delight  in  the 
t-iste  of  the  southern  fruit  that  ripens  upon 
my  terraces ;  I  enjoy  the  pensive  shade  of 
t!;e  Italian  ruins  ia  my  gardens  ;  I  like  to 
shoot  crocodiles,  and  talk  with  the  Sphinx 
upon  the  shores  of  the  Nile,  flowing  through 


MY   CHATEAUX.  59 

my  domain  :  I  am  glad  to  drink  sherbet  in 
.Damascus,  and  ileece  my  flocks  on  the 
plains  of  Marathon  ;  but  I  would  resign  all 
thase  forever  rather  than  part  with  tliat 
Spanish  portrait  of  Prue  fora  day.  Nay, 
have  I  not  resigned  them  a-H  forever,  to  live 
with  that  portrait's  changing  original  ? 

I  have  often  wondered  how  I  should  reach 
my  castles.  The  desire  of  going  comes  over 
me  very  strongly  sometimes,  and  I  endeavor 
to  S3e  how  I  can  arrange  my  affairs,  so  as 
to  g3t  away.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  am  not 
quite  sure  of  the  route, —  I  mean,  to  that 
particular  part  of  Spain  in  which  my  estates 
lie.  I  have  inquired  very  particularly,  but 
nobody  seems  to  know  precisely.  One  morn 
ing  I  met  young  Aspen,  trembling  with  ex 
citement. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  "  asked  I  with  in 
terest,  for  I  knew  that  he  held  a  great  deal 
of  Spanish  stock. 

"  Oh !  "  said  he,  "  I'm  going  out  to  take 
possession.  I  have  found  the  way  to  my 
castles  in  Spain." 

"  Dear  me!"  I  answered,  with  the  blood 


60  PRUE   AND   I. 

streaming  into  my  face;  and,  heedless  of 
Prue,  pulling  my  glove  until  it  ripped — • 
"  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  The  direct  route  is  through  California," 
answered  he. 

"  But  then  you  have  the  sea  to  cross  after 
ward,"  said  I,  remembering  the  map. 

"  Not  at  all,"  answered  Aspen,  "  the  road 
runs  along  the  shore  of  the  Sacramento 
Kiver." 

He  darted  away  from  me,  and  I  did  not 
meet  him  again.  I  was  very  curious  to- 
know  if  he  arrived  safely  in  Spain,  and  was 
expecting  every  day  to  hear  news  from  him 
of  my  property  there,  when,  one  evening, 
I  bought  an  extra,  full  of  California  news, 
and  the  first  thing  upon  which  my  eye  fell 
was  this:  "Died,  in  San  Francisco,  Edward 
Aspen,  Esq.,  aged  35."  There  is  a  large 
body  of  the  Spanish  stockholders  who  be- 
liove  with  Aspen,  and  sail  for  California 
every  week.  I  have  not  yet  heard  of  their 
rrrval  out  at  their  castles,  but  I  suppose 
tluy  are  s.>  !»;isy  with  their  own  affairs 
there,  taut  they  i:av3iio  time  to  write  to  the 


MY   CHATEAUX.  6l 

rest    of   us    about    the    condition    of    our 
property. 

There  was  my  wife's  cousin,  too,  Jonathan 
Bud,  who  is  a  good,  honest,  youth  from  the 
country,  and,  after  a  few  weeks'  absence,  he 
burst  into  the  office  one  day,  just  as  I  was 
balancing  my  books,  and  whispered  to  me, 
eagerly : 

"  I've  found  my  castle  in  Spain." 

I  put  the  blotting-paper  in  the  leaf  de 
liberately,  for  I  was  wiser  now  than  when 
Aspen  had  excited  me,  and  looked  at  my 
wife's  cousin,  Jonathan  Bud,  inquiringly. 

"  Polly  Bacon,"  whispered  he,  winking. 

I  continued  the  interrogative  glance. 

*'  She's  going  to  marry  me,  and  she'll 
show  me  the  way  to  Spain,"  said  Jonathan 
Bud,  hilariously. 

"  She'll  make  you  walk  Spanish,  Jon 
athan  Bud,"  said  I. 

And  so  she  does,  lie  makes  no  more 
hilarious  remarks.  He  never  bursts  into  a 
room.  He  does  not  ask  us  to  dinner.  He 
says  that  Mrs.  Bu  1  do^s  not  like  smoking. 
Mrs.  Ba.l  h.is  :v  -vo>  an  I  b.jbies.  She  has  a 


62  PRUE   AND   I. 

way  of  saying,  "  Mr.  Bud  !  "  which  destroys 
conversation,  and  casts  a  gloom  upon 
society. 

It  occurred  to  me  that  Bourne  the  mil 
lionaire,  must  have  ascertained  the  safest 
and  most  expeditious  route  to  Spain  ;  so  I 
stole  a  few  minutes  one  afternoon,  and  went 
into  his  office.  He  was  sitting  at  his  desk, 
writing  rapidly,  and  surrounded  by  files  of 
papers  and  patterns,  specimens,  boxes,  every 
thing  that  covers  the  tables  of  a  great  mer 
chant.  In  the  outer  rooms  clerks  were 
writing.  Upon  high  shelves  over  their  heads, 
were  huge  chests,  covered  with  dust,  dingy 
with  age,  many  of  them,  and  all  marked 
with  the  name  of  the  firm,  in  large  black 
letters — "  Bourne  &  Dye."  The}'  were  all 
numbered  also  with  the  proper  year  ;  some 
of  them  with  a  single  capital  B,  and  dates 
extending  back  into  the  last  century,  when 
old  Bourne  made  the  great  fortune,  before 
he  went  into,  partnership  with  Dye.  Every 
thing  was  indicative  of  immense  and  increas 
ing  prosperity. 

There   were   several   gentlemen   in  wait- 


MY   CHATEAUX.  63 

ing  to  converse  with  Bourne  (\ve  all  call  him 
so,  familiarly,  down  town),  and  I  waited 
until  they  went  out.  But  others  came  in. 
There  was  no  pause  in  the  rush.  All  kinds 
of  inquiries  were  made  and  answered.  At 
length  I  stepped  up. 

"  A  moment,  please,  Mr.  Bourne." 

He  looked  up  hastily,  wished  me  good 
morning  which  he  had  done  to  none  of  the 
others,  ond  which  courtesy  I  attributed  to 
Spanish  sympathy. 

"What  is  it,  sir?"  he  asked,  blandly, 
but  with  wrinkled  brow. 

;'Mr.  Bourne,  have  you  any  castles  in 
Spain  ? "  said  I,  without  preface.  " 

He  looked  at  me  for  a  few  moments  with 
out  speaking,  and  without  seeming  to  see  me. 
His  brow  gradually  smoothed,  and  his  eyes? 
apparently  looking  into  the  street,  were 
really,  I  have  no  doubt,  feasting  upon  the 
Spanish  landscape. 

"  Too  many,  too  many,"  said  he  at  length, 
"musingly,    shaking   his  headr  and   without  * 
addressing  me. 

I  suppose  he  felt  himself   too  much   ex- 


64  PRUE  AND  I. 

tended — as  we  say  in  Wall  Street.  He 
feared,  I  thought,  that  he  had  too  much  im 
practicable  property  elsewhere,  to  own  so 
much  in  Spain  ;  so  I  asked, 

"  Will  you  tell  me  what  you  consider  the 
shortest  and  safest  route  thither,  Mr.  Bourne  ? 
for,  of  course,  a  man  who  drives  such  an  im 
mense  trade  with  all  parts  of  the  world,  will 
know  all  that  I  have  come  to  inquire." 

"  My  dear  sir,"  answered  he  wearily,  "  I 
have  been  trying  all  my  life  to  discover  it  ; 
but  none  of  my  ships  have  ever  been  there 
— none  of  my  captains  have  any  report  to 
make.  They  bring  me,  as  they  brought  my 
father,  gold  dust  from  Guinea;  ivory,  pearls, 
and  precious  stones,  from  every  part  of  the 
earth  ;  but  not  a  fruit,  not  a  solitary  flower 
from  one  of  my  castles  in  Spain.  I  have 
sent  clerks,  agents,  and  travelers  of  all 
kinds,  philosophers,  pleasure-hunters,  and 
invalids,  in  all  sorts  of  ships,  to  all  sorts  of 
places,  but  none  of  them  ever  saw  or  heard 
of  my  castles,  except  one  young  poet,  and 
he  died  in  a  madhouse" 

"Mr  Bourne,    will    you    t;.ke   five  thou- 


MY   CHATEAUX.  6$ 

sand  at  ninety-seven  ? "  hastily  demanded  a 
man,  whom,  as  he  entered,  I  recognized  as  a 
broker.  "  We'll  make  a  splendid  thing  of  it.** 

Bourne  nodded  assent,  and  the  broker 
disappeared. 

"  Happy  man  I  "  muttered  the  merchant, 
as  the  broker  went  out  ;  "  he  has  no  castles 
in  Spain." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  troubled  you,  Mr. 
Bourne,"  said  I,  retiring. 

"  I  am  glad  you  came,"  returned  he  ;  "  but 
I  assure  you,  had  I  known  the  route  you 
hoped  to  ascertain  from  me,  I  should  ha*re 
stiiled  years  and  years  ago.  People  sail  for 
the  Northwest  Passage,  which  is  nothing 
when  you  have  found  it.  Why  don't  the 
English  Admiralty  fit  out  expeditions  to 
discover  all  our  castles  in  Spain  ?  " 

lie  sat  lost  in  thought. 

"  It's  nearly  post-time,  sir,"  said  the  clerk. 

Mr.  Bourne  did  not  heed  him.  He  was 
still  musing  ;  and  I  turned  to  go,  wishing 
hrn  good  morning.  When  I  had  nearly 
VM  'icd  the  door,  he  called  me  back,  saying 

us    '  "ontin'iing  his  remarks — 

5 


66  PRUE   AND   I. 

"  It  is  strange  that  you,  of  all  men,  should 
come  to  ask  me  this  question.  If  I  envy  an y 
man,  it  is  you,  for  I  sincerely  assure  \  ou 
th:it  I  supposed  you  lived  altogether  upon 
your  Spanish  estate?.  I  once  thought  I 
khe\v  the  way  to  mine.  I  gave  directions 
for  furnishing  them,  and  01  dried  bridal 
bouquets,  which  were  never  used,  but  I  t;up- 
pose  they  are  there  still." 

He  paused  a  moment,  then  said  slowly— 
"  How  is  your  wife  1 " 

I  told  him  that  Prue  was  veil  — that  she 
was  alwavs  remarkably  well.  Mr.  Bourne 

r  •* 

shook  n:e  warmly  by  the  hand. 
"  "Tlr.mk  you,-'  said  he.  "  Good  morning." 
I  knew  why  he  thanked  me;  I  knew  why 
he  thought  that  T  lived  altogether  upon  my 
Spanish  estates  ;  I  knew  a  little  bit  about 
those  bridal  bouquets.  Mr.  Bourne,  the  mil 
lionaire  was  an  old  lover  of  I 'rue's.  There 
is  something  very  odd  about  these  Spanish 
castles.  "When  I  think  of  them,  I  somehow 
r -.'  th<>  fair-li-'ired  girl  whom  I  knew  when 
I  VM'.S  rot  out  of  short  jackets.  When 
Bourne  meditates  them,  he  sees  Pruc  and 


MY   CHATEAUX.  67 

me  quietly  at  home  in  their  best  chambers. 
It  is  a  very  singular  thing  that  my  wife 
should  live  in  another  man's  castle  in  Spain. 

At  length  I  resolved  to  ask  Titbottom  if 
ho  had  ever  heard  of  the  best  route  to  our 
estates.  He  said  that  he  owned  castles,  and 
sometimes  there  was  an  expression  in  his  face, 
as  if  he  saw  them.  I  hope  he  did.  I  should 
long  ago  have  asked  him  if  he  had  ever  ob 
served  the  turrets  of  ray  possessions  in  the 
"West,  without  alluding  to  Spain,  if  I  had  not 
feared  he  would  suppose  I  was  mocking  his 
poverty.  I  hope  his  poverty  has  not  turned 
his  head,  for  he  is  very  forlorn. 

One  Sunday  I  went  with  him  a  few  miles 
into  the  country.  It  was  a  soft,  bright  day, 
the  fields  and  hills  lay  turned  to  the  sky,  as 
if  every  leaf  and  blade  of  grass  were  nerves, 
bared  to  the  touch  of  the  sun.  I  almost  felt 
the  ground  warm  under  my  feet.  The  mead 
ows  waved  and  glittered,  the  lights  and 
shadows  were  exquisite,  and  the  distant  hills 
seemed  only  to  remove  the  horizon  farther 
away.  As  we  strolled  along,  picking  wild 
flowers,  for  it  was  in  summer,  I  was  think- 


68  TRUE    AM)    I. 

ing  what  a  fine  day  it  was  for  a  trip  to 
Spain,  when  Titbottoin  suddenly  exclaimed  : 

"  Thank  God  !  I  own  this  landscape." 

"  You,"  returned  I. 

"  Certainly,"  said  he. 

"Why,"  I  answered,  "I  thouglit  this  was 
part  of  Bourne's  property  ?  "• 

Titbottoin  smiled. 

"  Does  Bourne  own  the  sun  and  sky  ? 
Does  Bourne  own  that  sailing  shadow 
yonder  ?  Does  Bourne  own  the  golden  lus 
ter  of  the  grain,  or  the  motion  of  the  wood, 
or  those  ghosts  of  hills,  that  glide  pallid 
along  the  horizon  ?  Bourne  owns  the  dirt 
and  fences;  I  own  the  beauty  tl.at  makes 
tlie  landscape,  or  otherwise  how  could  I  own 
castles  in  Spain  ?  " 

That  was  very  true.  I  respected  Titbot 
toin  more  than  ever. 

*'  Do   von  k  -ow,"    said  ho,   rftrr  a    lor.fr 

.  O 

pnu  e,  "that  1  fancy  my  castles  lie  just  be 
yond  t'-os'*  distant  hills.  At  ;.!!  events,  I  can 
see  t!u»in  distinctly  from  their  :  umniits." 

lie  s'nil'^1  <i!ii  -tly  as  bespoke,  and  it  was 
then  I  «is»Iv-d  : 


MY   CHATEAUX.  69 

"  But,  Titbottom,  have  you  never  discov 
ered  the  way  to  them  ?" 

"Dear  me!  yes,"  answered  he,  "  I  know 
the  \\i\y  well  enough  ;  but  it  -would  do  no 
good  to  follow  it.  I  should  give  out  before 
1  arrived.  It  is  a  long  and  difficult  journey 
for  a  man  of  my  years  and  habits — and  in 
come,''  he  added  slowly. 

As  he  spoke  he  seated  himself  upon  the 
ground  ;  and  while  he  pulled  long  blades  of 
grass,  and,  putting  them  between  his  thumbs, 
whistled  shrilly,  he  said : 

"  I  have  never  known  but  two  men  who 
reached  their  estates  in  Spain." 

"  Indeed  !  "  said  I,  " how  did  they  go?  " 

"  One  went  over  the  side  of  a  ship,  and 
the  other  out  of  a  third  story  window,"  said 
Titbottom,  fitting  a  broad  blade  between  his 
thumbs  and  blowing  a  demoniacal  blast. 

"  And  I  know  one  proprietor  who  resides 
upon  his  estates  constantly,"  continued  lie. 

"Who  is  that?" 

"Our old  friend  Slug,  whom  you  may  see 
any  day  at  the  asylum,  just  coming  in  from 
the  hunt,  or  going  to  call  upon  his  friend  the 


70  PRUE   AND   I. 

Grand  Lama,  or  dressing  for  the  wedding  of 
the  Man  in  the  Moon,  or  receiving  an  ambas 
sador  from  Timbuctoo.  Whenever  I  go  to 
see  him,  Slug  insists  that  I  am  the  Pope  dis 
guised  as  a  journeyman  carpenter,  and  he 
entertains  me  in  the  most  distinguished  man 
ner.  He  always  insists  upon  kissing  my  foot, 
and  I  bestow  upon  him,  kneeling,  the  apos 
tolic  benediction.  This  is  the  only  Spanish 
proprietor  in  possession,  with  whom  I  am 
acquainted." 

"  And,  so  saying,  Titbottom  lay  back  upon 
the  ground,  and  making  a  spy-glass  of  his 
hand,  surveyed  the  landscape  through  it. 
This  was  a  marvelous  bookkeeper  of  more 
than  sixty  ! 

"  I  know  another  man  who  lived  in  his 
Spanish  castle  for  two  months,  and  then 
was  tumbled  out  head  first.  That  was 
young  Stunning  who  married  old  Buhl's 
daughter.  She  was  all  smiles,  and  mamma 
was  all  sugar,  and  Stunning  was  all  bliss,  for 
two  months.  He  carried  his  head  in  the 
clouds,  and  felicity  absolutely  foamed  at  his 
eyes.  He  was  drowned  in  love  ;  seeing,  as 


MY  CHATEAUX.  Jl 

usual,  not  what  really  was,  but  what  he  fan 
cied.  He  lived  so  exclusively  in  his  castle, 
that  he  forgot  the  office  down  town,  and  one 
morning  there  came  a  fall,  and  Stunning 
was  smashed." 

Titbottorn  arose,  and  stooping  over,  con 
templated  the  landscape,  with  his  head  down 
between  his  legs. 

"  It's  quite  a  new  effect,  so,"  said  the  nim 
ble  bookkeeper. 

"  Well,*'  said  I,  "  Stunning  failed  '( " 

"  Oh  yes,  smashed  all  up,  and  the  castle 
in  Spain  came  down  about  his  ears  with  a 
tremendous  crash.  The  family  sugar  was 
all  dissolved  into  the  original  cane  in  a  mo 
ment.  Fairy  times  are  over,  are  they  ? 
Heigh-ho!  the  falling  stones  of  Stunning's 
castle  have  left  their  .marks  all  over  his 
face.  I  call  them  his  Spanish  scars." 

u  But,  my  dear  Tilbottom,"  said  I,  "  what 
is  the  matter  with  you  thlj  morning,  your 
usual  sedateness  is  quite  gone  ?  " 

"It's  only  the  exhilarating  air  of  Spain/* 
he  answered.  "  My  castles  are  so  beautiful 
that  I  can  never  think  of  them,  nor  speak 


?2  PRUE   AND   I. 

of  them,  without  excitement;  when  I  was 
younger  I  desired  to  reach  them  even  more 
ardentiy  than  now,  because  I  heard  that  the 
philosopher's  stone  was  m  the  vault  cf  one 
of  them." 

"Indeed,"  said  I,  yielding  to  sympathy, 
"  and  I  have  gooil  reason  to  believe  that  tho 
fountain  of  eternal  youth  flows  through  the 
garden  of  one  of  mine.  Do  yon  know 
whether  there  are  any  children  upon  your 
grounds  ?  " 

"'The  children  of  Alice  call  Eartrum 
father !'"  replied  Titbottom,  solemnly,  and 
in  a  low  voice,  as  he  folded  his  faded  hands 
befo-re  him,  and  stood  erect,  looking  wist 
fully  over  the  landscape.  The  light  wind 
played  with  his  thin  white  hair,  and  his 
sober,  black  suit  was  almost  romber  in  the 
sunshine.  The  halt'  bitter  expression,  which 
I  had  remarked  upon  his  face  during  part  of 
our  conversation,  had  passed  away,  and  the 
old  sadness  had  returned  to  his  eyes.  Jle 
stood,  in  the  pleasant  morning,  the  very 
image  of  a  great  proprietor  of  castles  in' 
Spain. 


73 

"  There  is  wonderful  music  there,"  be  said  : 
"  sometimes  I  awake  at  night,  and  hear  it. 
It  is  full  of  the  sweetness  of  youth,  and  love, 
and  a  new  world.  I  lie  and  listen,  and  I 
seem  to  arrive  at  the  great  gates  of  my  es 
tates.  They  swing  open  upon  noiseless 
hinges,  and  the  tropic  of  my  dreams  receives 
me.  Up  the  broad  steps,  whose  marble 
pavement  mingled  light  and  shadow  print 
with  shifting  mosaic,  beneath  the  boughs  of 
lustrous  oleanders,  and  palms,  and  trees  of 
unimaginable  fragrance,  I  pass  into  the  ves 
tibule,  warm  with  summer  odors,  and  into, 
the  presence-chamber  beyond,  where  my 
wife  awaits  me.  But  castle,  and  wife,  and 
odorous  woods,  and  pictures,  and  statues, 
and  all  the  bright  substance  of  my  house 
hold,  seem  to  reel  and  glimmer  in  the  splen 
dor,  as  the  music  fails. 

"•  But  when  it  swells  again,  I  clasp  the  wife 
to  my  heart,  and  we  move  on  with  a  fair  so 
ciety,  beautiful  women,  noble  men,  before 
whom  the  tropical  luxuriance  of  that  world 
bends  nn-'l  bows  in  ho'tia-re;  ,"nd,  through 
endless  d  ivs  ;.m!  r:i.<;hts  of  eternal  summer, 


74  PRUE    AND    I. 

the  stately  revel  of  our  life  proceeds.  Then, 
suddenly,  the  music  stops.  I  hear  my  watch 
ticking  under  the  pillow.  I  see  dimly  the 
outline  of  my  little  upper  room.  Then  I  fall 
asleep,  and  in  the  morning  some  one  of  the 
boarders  at  the  breakfast-table  says : 

" '  Did  you  hear  the  serenade  last  night, 
Hr.  Titbottom  ? '  " 

J  doubted  no  longer  that  Titbottom  was 
;a  very  extensive  proprietor.  The  truth  is, 
that  he  was  so  constantly  engaged  in  plan 
ning  and  arranging  his  castles,  that  he  con 
versed  very  little  at  the  office,  and  I  had 
misinterpreted  his  silence.  As  we  walked 
homeward,  that  day,  he  was  more  than  ever 
tender  and  gentle.  "  We  must  all  have  some 
thing  to  do  in  this  world,"  said  he,  "  and  I, 
who  have  so  much  leisure — for  you  know  I 
have  no  wife  nor  children  to  work  for — know 
not  what  I  should  do,  if  I  had  not  my  castles 
in  Spain  to  look  after." 

When  I  reached  home,  mv  darling  Prue 
was  sitting  in  the  small  pnHor,  rending.  I 
felt  a  little  gr.il'v  fn«  having  beon  so  long 
away,  and  upon  n.y  onlv  holiday,  too.  So 


MY   CHATEAUX,  75 

I  began  to  say  that  Titbottom  invited  me  to 
go  to  walk,  and  that  I  ha/l  no  idea  we  had 
gone  so  far,  and  that — : — 

"  Don't  excuse  yourself,"  said  Prue,  smil 
ing  as  she  laid  down  her  book  ;  "  I  am  glad 
you  have  enjoyed  yourself.  You  ought  to 
go  out  sometimes,  and  breathe  the  fresh  air, 
and  run  about  the  fields,  which  I  am  not 
.strong  enough  to  do.  Why  did  you  not 
bring  home  Mr.  Titbottom  to  tea  ?  He  is  so 
lonely,  and  looks  so  sad.  I  am  sure  he  has 
very  little  comfort  in  this  life,"  said  my 
thoughtful  Prue,  as  she  called  Jane  to  set 
the  tea  table. 

"  But  he  has  a  good  deal  of  comfort  in 
Spain,  Prue,"  answered  I. 

"  When  was  Mr.  Titbottom  in  Spain,"  in 
quired  my  wife. 

"  Why,  he  is  there  more  than  half  the 
time,"  I  replied. 

Prue  looked  quietly  at  me  and  smiled.  •"  I 
see  it  has  done  you  good  to  breathe  the 
country  air,"  said  she.  "  Jane,  get  some  of 
the  blackberry  jam,  and  call  Adoniram  and 
the  children." 


7f}  PRUE  AND   I. 

So  we  went  in  to  tea.  We  eat  in  the  back 
parlor,  for  our  little  house  and  limited  means 
do  not  allow  us  to  have  things  upon  the 
Spanish  scale.  It  is  better  than  a  sermon  to- 
hear  my  wife  Prue  talk  to  the  children  ;  and 
when  she  speaks  to  me  it  seems  sweeter  than 
psalm  singing;  at  least,  such  as  we  have  in 
our  church.  I  am  very  happy. 

Yet  I  dream  my  dreams,  and  attend  to  mv 
castles  in  Spain.  I  have  so  much  property 
there,  that  I  could  not,  in  conscience,  neglect 
it.  All  the  years  of  my  youth,  and  the  hopes, 
of  my  manhood,  are  stored  away,  like  pre 
cious  stones,  in  the  vaults,  and  I  kno\v  that 
I  shall  find  everything  convenient,  elegant,. 
and  beautiful,  when  I  come  into  pos;sc>s:on. 

As  the  years  go  by,  I  am  not  conscious, 
that  my  interest  diminishes.  If  I  i\  e  that. 
age  is  subtly  sifting  his  snow  in  tl.e  dark 
hair  of  my  Prue,  I  smile,  contented,  for  her 
hair,  dark  an:l  heavy  as  when  I  first  saw  it, 
is  all  carefully  treasured  in  mv  castles  in 
Spain.  If  I  feel  her  arm  more  heavily  lean 
ing  upon  mine,  as  we  walk  around  the 
squares,  I  press  it  closely  to  my  side,  for 


MY   CHATEAUX.  77 

I  know  that  the  easy  grace  of  her  youth's 
motion  will  be  restored  by  the  elixir  of  that 
Spanish  air.  If  her  voice  sometimes  falls 
less  clearly  from  her  lips,  it  is  no  less  sweet 
to  me,  for  the  music  of  her  voice's  prime  fills, 
freshly  as  ever,  those  Spanish  halls.  If  the 
li^-ht  I  love  fades  a  little  from,  her  eyes,  I 
know  that  the  glances  she  gave  me,  in  our 
youth,  are  the  eternal  sunshine  of  my  castles 
in  Spain. 

I  defy  time  and  change.  Each  year  laid 
upon  our  heads,  is  a  hand  of  blessing.  I  have 
no  doubt  that  I  shall  find  the  shortest  route 
to  my  possessions  as  soon  as  need  be. 
Perhaps,  when  Adoniram  is  married,  we 
shall  all  go  out  to  one  of  my  castles  to  pass 
the  honey-moon. 

Ah !  if  the  true  history  of  Spain  could  be 
written  what  a  book  were  there  !  The  most 
purely  romantic  ruin  in  the  world  is  the 
Alhambra.  But  of  the  Spanisii  castles, 
more  spacious  and  splendid  than  any  possi 
ble  Alhambra,  and  for  ever  unruined,  no 
towers  ;ire  visible,  no  pictures  have  been 
painted,  and  only  a  few  ecstatic  songs  have 


78  PRUE    AND    I. 

been  sung.  The  pleasure-dome  of  Kubla 
Khan,  which  Coleridge  saw  in  Xanadu  (a 
province  with  which  I  am  not  familiar),  and 
a  fine  Castle  of  Indolence  belonging  to- 
Thomson,  and  the  Palace  of  art  which 
Tennyson  built  as  a  "  lordly  pleasure-house  "" 
for  his  soul,  are  among  the  best  statistical 
accounts  of  those  Spanish  estates.  Turner,, 
too,  has  done  for  them  much  the  same 
service  that  Owen  Jones  .has  done  for  the 
Alhambra.  In  the  vignette  to  Moore's 
Epicurean  you  will  find  represented  one  of 
the  most  extensive  castles  in  Spain  ;  and 
there  are  several  exquisite  studies  from 
others,  by  the  same  artists,  published  in 
Rogers's  Italy. 

But  I  confess  I  do  not  recognize  any  of 
these  as  mine,  and  that  fact  makes  me 
prouder  of  my  own  castles,  for,  if  there  be 
such  boundless  variety  of  magnificence  in 
their  aspect  and  exterior,  imagine  the  life 
that  is  led  there,  a  life  not  unworthy  such  a 
setting. 

If  Adoniram  should  be  married  within  a 
reasonable  time,  and  we  should  make  up 


MY   CHATEAUX,  79 

that  little  family  party  to  go  out,  I  have 
considered  already  what  society  I  should 
ask  to  meet  the  bride.  Jephthah's  daughter 
and  the  Chevalier  Bayard,  I  should  say — and 
fair  Rosamond  with  Dean  Swift  —  King 
Solomon  and  the  Queen  of  Sheba  Avould 
come  over,  I  think-,  from  his  famous  castle — 
Shakespeare  and  his  friend  the  Marquis  of 
Southampton  might  come  in  a  galley  with 
Cleopatra;  and,  if  any  guest  were  offended 
by  her  presence,  he  should  devote  himself  to 
the  Fair  One  with  Golden  Locks.  Mephis- 
topheles  is  not  personally  disagreeable,  and 
is  exceedingly  well-bred  in  society,  I  am 
told ;  and  he  should,  come  tete-a-tete  with 
Mrs.  Rawdon  Crawley.  Spenser  should 
escort  his  Faerie  Queen,  who  would  preside 
at  the  tea-table. 

Mr.  Samuel  Weller  I  should  ask  as  Lord 
of  Misrule,  and  Dr.  Johnson  as  the  Abbot 
of  Unreason.  I  would  suggest  to  Major 
Dobbin  to  accompany  Mrs.  Fry ;  Alcibiades 
would  bring  Homer  and  Plato  in  his  purple- 
sailed  galley ;  and  I  would  have  Aspasia, 
Ninon  de  1'Enclos,  and  Mrs.  Battle,  to  make 


£0  TRUE   AND    I. 

Up  a  table  of  whist  with  Queen  Elizabeth. 
I  shall  order  a  seat  placed  in  the  oratory  for 
Lady  Jane  Grey  and  Joan  of  Arc.  I  shall 
invite  General  "Washington  to  bring  some  of 
the  choicest  cigars  from  his  plantation  for 
Sir  Walter  Raleigh  ;  and  Chaucer,  Browning, 
and  Walter  Savage  Landor,  should  talk  with 
Goethe,  who  is  to  bring  Tasso  on  one  arm 
and  Iphigenia  on  the  other. 

Dante  and  Mr.  Carlyle  would  prefer,  I 
suppose,  to  go  down  into  the  dark  vaults 
under  the  castle.  The  Man  in  the  Moon,  the 
Old  Harry,  and  William  of  the  Wisp  would 
be  valuable  additions,  and  the  Laureate 
^Tennyson  might  compose  an  official  ode 
upon  the  occasion :  or  I  would  ask  "  They  " 
to  say  all  about  it. 

Of  course  there  are  many  other  guests 
whose  names  I  do  not  at  the  moment  recall. 
But  I  should  invite,  first  of  all,  Miles  Cover- 
dale,  who  knows  everything  about  these 
places  and  this  society,  for  he  was  at  Blithe- 
dale,  and  he  has  described  "  a  select  party  " 
which  he  attended  at  a  castle  in  the  air. 

Prue  has  not  vet  looked  over  tho  list.    In 


MY    CHATEAUX.  8l 

fact  I  am  not  quite  sure  that  she  knows  my 
intention.  For  I  wish  to  surprise  her,  and 
I  think  it  would  be  generous  to  ask  Bourne 
to  lead  her  out  in  the  bridal  quadrille.  I 
think  that  I  shall  try  the  first  waltz  with 
the  g'rl  I  sometimes  seem  to  see  in  my 
fairest  castle,  but  whom  I  very  vaguely 
remember.  Titbottom  will  come  with  old 
Burton  and  Jaques.  But  I  have  not  prepared 
h:i!f  my  invitations.  Do  you  not  guess  it, 
s?eing  that  I  did  not  name,  first  of  all,  Elia, 
who  assisted  at  the  "  Rejoicings  upon  the 
n;>:vv  year's  coming  of  age?  " 

And  yet,  if  Adoniram  should  never  marry  ? 
— or  if  we  could  not  get  to  Spain? — or  if 
to  company  would  not  come? 

What  then?  Shall  I  betray  a  secret  ?  I 
1'Mve  already  entertained  this  party  in  my 
I1,  :;nble  little  parlor  at  home;  and  Prue 
•presided  r.s  serenely  as  Semiramis  over  her 
r.'iirt.  Ilavo  I  not  said  that  I  defy  time, 
:->id  slinll  space  hope  to  daunt  me?  I  keep 
books  by  day,  but  by  night  books  keep  me. 
They  leave  me  to  dreams  and  reveries.  Shall 
I  co"  f  ••<*>!,  tint  so-iftiwps  when  I  have  been 


82  PRUE  AND   I. 

sitting,  reading  to  my  Prue,  Cymbeline, 
perhaps,  or  a  Canterbury  tale,  I  have  seemed 
to  see  clearly  before  me  the  broad  highway 
to  my  castles  in  Spain  ;  and  as  she  looked 
up  from  her  work,  and  smiled  in  sympathy, 
I  have  even  fancied  that  i  was  already  there. 


SEA  FROM  SHORE. 


"  Come  unto  these  yellow  sands." 

The  Tempest. 

"  Argosies  of  magic  sails, 

Pilots  of  the  purple  twilight,  dropping  down  with  costly 
bales." 

Tennyson. 


SEA  FROM  SHORE. 

"  Come  unto  these  yellow  sands." 

The  Tempest. 

"  Argosies  of  magic  sails, 
Pilots  of  the  purple  twilight,  dropping  down  with 
costly  bales." 

Tennyson. 

IN  the  month  of  June,  Prue  and  I  l!ke  to- 
walk  upon  the  Battery  toward  sunset,  and 
watch  the  steamers,  crowded  with  passen 
gers,  bound  for  the  pleasant  places  along 
the  coast  where  people  pass  the  hot  mont!:s. 
Sea-side  lodgings  are  not  very  comfortable, 
I  am  told  ;  but  who  would  not  be  a  little 
pinched  in  his  chamber,  if  hie  windows 
looked  upon  the  sea? 

In  such  praises  of  the  ocean  do  I  indulge 
at  such  times,  and  so  respectfully  do  I*  re 
gard  the  sailors  who  may  chance  to  pass, 
that  Prueoften  says,  with  '">"  shroud  smiles,. 

that  my  mind  is  a  kind  cf  Greenwich  JIos- 

85 


86  PRUE  AND   I. 

pital,  full  of  abortive  marine  hopes  and 
wishes,  broken-legged  intentions,  blind  re 
grets,  and  desires,  whose  hands  have  been 
shot  away  in  some  hard  battle  of  experience 
so  that  they  cannot  grasp  the  results  towards 
which  they  reach. 

She  is  right,  as  usual.  Such  hopes  and 
intentions  do  lie,  ruined  and  hopeless  now, 
strewn  about  the  placid  contentment  of  my 
mental  life,  as  the  old  pensioners  sit  about 
the  grounds  at  Greenwich,  maimed  and  mus 
ing  in  the  quiet  morning  sunshine.  Many  a 
one  among  them  thinks  what  a  Nelson  he 
would  have  been  if  both  his  legs  had  not 
been  prematurely  carried  away  ;  or  in  what 
•a  Trafalgar  of  triumph  he  would  have  ended, 
if,  unfortunately,  he  had  not  happened  to 
have  been  blown  blind  by  the  explosion  of 
that  unlucky  magazine. 

So  I  dream,  sometimes,  of  a  straight  scar 
let  collar,  stiff  with  gold  lace,  around  my 
"neck,  instead  of  this  limp  white  cravat ;  and 
I  have  even  brandished  my  quill  at  the 
•office  so  cutlass-wise,  that  Titbottom  has 
paused  in  his  additions  nnd  looked  at  me  as 


SEA   FROM    SHORE.  87 

if  lie  doubted  whether  I  should  come  out 
quite  square  in  my  petty  cash.  Yet  he  un 
derstands  it.  Titbottorn  was  born  in  Nan- 
tucket. 

That  is  the  secret  of  my  fondness  for  the 
se.i  ;  I  was  born  by  it.  Not  more  surely  do 
Savoyards  pine  for  the  mountains,  or  Cock 
neys  for  the  sound  of  Bow  bells,  than  those 
who  are  born  within  sight  and  sound  of  the 
ocean  to  return  to  it  and  renew  their  fealty. 
In  dreams  the  children  of  the  sea  hear  its 
voice. 

I  have  read  in  some  book  of  travels  that 
certain  tribes  of  Arabs  have  no  name  for  the 
ocean,  and  that  when  they  came  to  the  shore 
for  the  first  time,  they  asked  with  eager  sad 
ness,  as  if  penetrated  by  the  conviction  of  a> 
superior  beauty, "  what  is  that  desert  of  water 
more  beautiful  than  the  land  ?  "  And  in  the 
'  translations  of  German  stories  which  Ado- 
niram  and  the  other  children  read,  and  into 
which  I  occasionally  look  in  the  evening 
when  they  are  gone  to  bed — for  I  like  to 
know  what  interests  my  children — I  find 
that  the  Germans,  who  do  not  live  near  the 


88  PRUE   ATsTD   I. 

sea,  love  the  fairy  lore  of  water,  and  tell  the 
sweet  stories  of  Undine  and  Melusina,  us  if 
they  had  especial  charm  for  them,  because 
their  country  is  inland. 

Wo  who  know  the  sea  have  less  fairy  feel 
ing  about  it,  but  our  realities  are  romance. 
My  earliest  remembrances  are  of  a  long 
range  of  old,  half  dilapidated  stores ;  red 
brick  stores  with  steep  wooden  roofs,  and 
;stone  window-frames  and  door-frames,  which 
stood  upon  docks  built  as  if  for  immense 
trade  with  all  quarters  of  the  globe. 

Generally  there  were  only  a  few  sloops 
moored  to  the  tremendous  posts,  which  I 
fancied  could  easily  hold  fast  a  Spanish 
Armada  in  a  tropical  hurricane.  But  some 
times  a  great  ship,  an  East  Indiaman.  with 
rusty,  seamed,  blistered  sides,  anil  dingy 
;sails,  came  slowly  moving  up  the  harbor, 
with  an  air  of  indolent  self-importance  and 
-consciousness  of  superiority,  which  inspired 
mo  with  profound  respect.  If  the  ship  had 
•ever  chanced  to  run  down  t\  ro\v-bo;it,  or  a 
.sloop,  or  any  specimen  of  smaller  craft,  I 
should  only  have  wondered  at  the  temerity 


SEA    FROM    SHORE.  89 

of  any  floating  thing  in  crossing  the  path  of 
such  supreme  majesty.  The  ship  was  lei 
surely  chained  and 'cabled  to  the  old  dock, 
and  then  came  the  disemboweling. 

llo\v  the  stately  monster  had  been  fatten 
ing  upon  foreign  spoils  !  How  it  had  gorged 
itself  (such  galleons  did  never  seem  to  iiie  of 
the  feminine  gender)  with  the  luscious  treas 
ures  of  the  tropics!  It  had  lain  its  lazy 
length  along  the  shores  of  China,  and  sucked 
in  whole  flowery  harvests  of  tea.  The  Bra 
zilian  sun  flashed  through  the  strong  wkker 
prisons,  bursting  with  bananas  and  nectarean 
fruits  that  eschew  the  temperate  zone. 
Steams  of  camphor,  of  sandal  wood,  s;rose: 
from  the  hold.  Sailors  chanting  cabalistic 
strains,  that  had  to  my  ear  a  shrill  and 
monotonous  pathos,  like  the  uniform  rising- 
and  falling  of  an  autumn  wind,  turned 
cranks  that  lifted  the  bales,  and  bo'xes,  and 
crates,  and  swung  them  ashore. 

But  to  my  mind,  the  spell  of  their  singing 
raised  the  frngrar.t  freight,  and  r.ot  the 
crank.  Madagascar  and  Ceylon  appeared  ;,t 
the  mystic  buKiin^  •  •'  tiu>  so:?g.  The  placid- 


90  PRUE  AND   i. 

sunshine  of  the  docks  was  perfumed  with 
India.  The  universal  calm  of  southern  seas 
poured  from  the  bosom  of  the  ship  over  the 
quiet,  decaying  old  northern  port. 

Long  after  the  confusion  of  unloading  was 
over  and  the  ship  lay  as  if  all  voyages  wero 
ended,  1  dared  to  creep  timorously  along 
the  edge  of  the  dock,  and  at  great  risk  of 
fallino-  in  the  black  water  of  its  huge  shadow, 

O  *— ' 

I  placed  my  hand  upon  the  hot  hulk,  and 
so  established  a  mystic  and  exquisite  con 
nection  with  Pacific  islands,  with  palm 
groves  and  all  the  passionate  beauties  they 
embower;  with  jungles,  Bengal  tigers, 
pepper,  and  the  crushed  feet  of  Chinese 
fairies.  I  touched  Asia,  the  Cape  of  Good 
Hope  and  the  Happy  Islands.  I  would  not 
believe  that  the  heat  I  felt  was  of  our  north 
ern  sun ;  to  my  finer  sympathy  it  burned 
with  equatorial  fervors. 

The  freight  was  piled  in  the  old  stores. 
I  believe  that  many  of  them  remain,  but 
they  have  lost  their  character.  When  ] 
knew  them,  not  only  was  I  younger,  but 
partial  decay  had  overtaken  the  town; 


SEA  FROM   SHORE.  91 

at  least  the  bulk  of  its  India  trade  had 
shifted  to  New  York  and  Boston.  But  the 
appliances  remained.  There  was  no  throng 
of  busy  traffickers,  and  after  school,  in  the 
afternoon,  I  strolled  bv  and  gazed  into  the 

V 

solemn  interiors. 

Silence  reigned  within, — silence,  dimness, 
and  piles  of  foreign  treasure.  Vast  coils  of 
cable,  like  tame  boa-constrictors,  served  as 
seats  for  men  with  large  stomachs,  and 
heavy  watch-seals,  and  nankeen  trousers, 
who  sat  looking  out  of  the  door  toward  the 
ships,  with  little  other  sign  of  life  than  an 
occasional  low  talking,  as  if  in  their  sleep. 
Huge  hogsheads  perspiring  brown  sugar 
and  oozing  slow  molasses,  as  if  nothing 
tropical  couid  keep  within  bounds,  but  must 
continually  expand,  and  exude,  and  over- 
flow,  stood  against  the  walls,  and  had  an 
architectural  significance,  for  they  darkly 
reminded  me  of  Egyptian  prints,  and  in  the 
duskiness  of  the  low  vaulted  store  seemed 
cyclopean  columns  incomplete.  Strange 
festoons  and  heaps  of  bags,  square  piles  of 
square  boxes  cased  in  mats,  bales  of  airy 


92  PRUE   A*D    I. 

snmmor    stuffs,    which,    even    in     winter, 

scoffed  at  cold,  and  shamed  it  by  audacious 

assumption   of  eternal  sun,   little  specimen 

f  boxes  of  precious  dyes  that  even  now  shine 

>  through    my   memory,   like   old    Venetian 

schools  unpainted, — these  were  all  there  in 

rich  confusion. 

The  stores  had  a  twilight  of  dimness,  the 
air  was  spicy  with  mingled  odors.  I  liked  to 
look  suddenly  in  from  the  glare  of  sunlight 
outside,  and  then  the  cool  sweet  dimness  was 
like  the  palpable  breath  of  the  far  off  island- 
groves  ;  and  if  only  some  parrot  or  macaw 
hung  within,  would  flaunt  with  glistening 
plumage  in  his  cage,  and  as  the  gay  hue 
flashed  in  a  chance  sunbeam,  call  in  his 
hard,  shrill  voice,  as  if  thrusting  sharp  sounds 
.  upon  a  glistening  wire  from  out  that  grate 
ful  gloom,  then  the  enchantment  was  com 
plete,  and  without  moving,  I  was  circum 
navigating  the  globe. 

From  the  old  stores  and  the  docks  slowly 
crumbling,  touched,  I  know  not  why  or  how, 
by  the  pensive  air  of  past  prosperity,  I  ram 
bled  out  of  town  on  those  well  remembered 


SEA   FROM    SHORE.  93 

afternoons,  to  the  fields  that  lay  upon  hill 
sides  over  the  harbor,  and  there  sat,  looking 
out  to  sea,  fancying  some  distant  sail  pro 
ceeding  to  the  glorious"  ends  of  the  earth,  to 
be  my  type  and  image,  who  would  so  sail, 
stately  and  successful,  to  all  the  glorious 
ports  of  the  Future.  Going  home,  I  re 
turned  by  the  stores,  which  black  porters 
were  closing.  But  I  stood  long  looking  in, 
saturating  my  imagination,  and  as  it  ap 
peared,  my  clothes,  with  the  spicy  sugges 
tion.  For  when  I  reached  home  my  thrifty 
mother — another  Prue— came  snuffing  and 
smelling  about  me. 

"  "Why  !  my  son,  (snuff,  snuff,}  where  have 
you  been  ?  (snuff,  snuff}.  lias  the  baker 
been  making  (snuff}  ginger-bread  \  You 
smell  as  if  you'd  been  in  (snuff,  snuff,}  a  bag 
of  cinnamon." 

"  I've  only  been  on  the  wharves,  mother." 
"  Well,  my  dear,  I  hope  you  haven't  stuck 
up  your  clothes  with  molasses.  "Wharves 
are  dirty  places,  and  dangerous.  You  must 
take  care  of  yourself,  my  son.  Really  -this 
smell  is  (snuff,  snuff}  very  strong." 


94  PRUE   AND   I. 

But  I  departed  from  the  maternal  pres 
ence,  proud  and  happy.  I  was  aromatic.  I 
bore  about  me  the  true  foreign  air.  Who 
ever  smelt  me  smelt  distant  countries.  I  had 
nutmeg,  spices,  cinnamon,  and  cloves,  with 
out  the  jolly  red-nose.  I  pleased  myself 
with  being  the  representative  of  the  Indies. 
I  was  in  good  odor  with  myself  and  all  the 
•\vorld. 

I  do  not  know  how  it  is,  but  surely  Na 
ture  makes  kindly  provision.  An  imagina 
tion  so  easily  excited  as  mine  could  not 
have  escr.pe;!  disappointment  if  it  hacl  had 
ample  opportunity  and  experience  of  the 
lands  it  so  longed  to  see.  Therefore,  al 
though  I  made  the  India  voyage,  I  have 
never  been  a  traveler,  and  saving  the  little 
time  I  was  ashore  in  India,  I  did  not  lose  the 
sense  of  novelty  and  romance,  which  the 
first  sight  of  foreign  lands  inspires. 

That  little  time  was  all  my  foreign  travel. 
I  am  glad  of  it.  I  see  now  that  I  should 
never  have  found  the  country  from  which 
the  East  Indiaman  of  my  early  days  arrived. 
The  palm  groves  do  not  grow  with  which 


SEA   FROM    SHORE.  95 

that  hand  laid  upon  the  ship  placed  me  in 
magic  conception.  As  for  the  lovely  Indian 
maid  whom  the  palmy  arches  bowered,  she 
has  long  since  clasped  some  native  lover  to 
her  bosom,  an:l,  r  pened  into  mild  maternity, 
how  should  I  know  her  now? 

u  You  would  find  her  quiio  as  easily  now 
as  then,"  says  my  Pruc,  when  I  speak  of  it. 

She  is  right  again,  as  usual,  that  precious 
woman  ;  and  it  is  therefore  I  feel  thatjf  the 
chances  of  life  have  moored  me  fast  to  a 
bookkeeper's  desk,  they  have  left  all  the 
lands  I  longed  to  see  fairer  and  fresher  in 
my  mind  than  they  could  ever  be  in  my 
memory.  Upon  rnv  only  voyage  I  used  to 
climb  into  the  top  and  search  the  horizon 
for  tho  shore.  But  now  in  a  moment  of 
c::lm  thought  I  see  a  more  Indian  India  than 
ever  mariner  discerned,  and  do  not  envy  tbo 
youths  who  go  there  and  make  fortunes, 

*.  •  O 

who  wear  grass-cloth  jackets,  drink  iced 
beer,  and  eat  curry  ;  whose  minds  fall 
asleep,  and  whose  bodies  have  liver  com 
plaints. 

Unseen  by  me  forever  nor  ever  regretted, 


96  PRUE   AND    I. 

shall  wave  the  Egyptian  palms  and  the 
Italian  pines.  Untrodden  by  me,  the  Forum 
shall  siill  echo  with  the  footfall  of  imperial 
Home,  and  the  Parthenon  un rifled  of  its 
marbles,  loo!;  p-.M'iVct  across  the  Egean  blue. 
My  young  friends  return  from  tluir  for 
eign  tours  el. ;te  \\i;h  the  smiles  of  a  nameless 
Italian  or  Parisian  i;eile  I  kno\v  not  such 
cheap  delights;  1  am  a  suitor  of  Yittoria 
Colonna ;  I  walk  with  Tasso  along  t'.:e  ter 
raced  garden  of  the  Villa  d'Este,  n\\d  look 
to  see  Beatrice  smiling  down  the  rich  g'.-oom 
of  the  cypress  shade.  You  stayed  at  the 
Hotel  Europa  in  Venice,  at  DanielWs^  or 
the  Leone  bianco  ;  I  am  the  guest  of  Marino 
Faliero,  and  I  whisper  to  his  wife  as  we 
climb  the  giant  staircase  in  the  summer 
moonlight, 

"  Ah,   senza  amare 
Andare  sul  mare, 
Col  sposo  del  mare, 
Non  puo  consolare." 

It  is  for  the  same  reason  that  I  did  not 
care  to  dine  with  you  and  Aurelia,  that  I 
am  content  not  to  stand  in  St.  Peter's. 


SEA   FROM    SHORE.  9? 

Alas  !  if  I  could  see  the  end  of  it,  it  would 
not  be  St.  Peter's.  For  those  of  us  whom 
Nature  means  to  keep  at  home,  she  provides 
entertainment.  One  man  goes  four  thou 
sand  miles  to  Italy,  and  does  not  see  it,  he  is 
so  short-sighted.  Another  is  so  far-sighted 
that  he  stays  in  his  room  and  sees  more 
than  Italy. 

But  for  this  very  reason  that  it  washes 
the  shores  of  my  possible  Europe  and  Asia, 
the  sea  draws  me  constantly  to  itself. 
Before  I  came  to  New  York,  while  1  was 
still  a  clerk  in  Boston,  courting  Prue,  and 
living  out  of  town,  I  never  knew  of  a  ship 
sailing  for  India  or  even  for  England  and 
France,  but  I  went  up  to  the  State  House 
cupola  or  to  the  observatory  on  some 
friend's  house  in  lioxbury,  where  I  could 
not  be  interrupted,  and  there  watched  the 
departure. 

The  sails  hung  ready  ;  the  ships  lay  in  the 
stream  ;  busy  little  boats  and  puffing  steam 
ers  darted  about  it,  clung  to  its  sides,  pad 
dled  away  from  it,  or  led  the  way  to  sea,  as 
minniry^  ;:iL"ht  pilot  a  whale.  Tiie  anchor 


98  PRUE   AND   I. 

was  slowly  swung  at  the  bow  ;  I  could  not 
hear  the  sailors'  song,  but  I  knew  they  were 
singing.  I  could  not  see  the  parting  friends, 
but  1  knew  farewells  were  spoken.  I  did 
not  share  the  confusion,  although  I  knew 
what  bustle  there  was,  what  hurry,  what 
shouting,  what  creaking,  what  fall  of  ropes 
and  iron,  what  sharp  oaths,  lo.v  laughs, 
whispers,  sobs.  But  I  was  cool,  high,  sepa 
rate.  To  me  it  was 

"  A  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean." 

The  sails  were  shaken  out,  and  the  ship 
began  to  move.  It  was  a  fair  breeze,  per 
haps,  and  no  steamer  was  needed  to  tow  her 
away.  She  receded  down  the  bay.  Friends 
turned  back — I  could  not  see  them — and 
waved  their  hands,  and  wiped  their  eyes, 
and  went  home  to  dinner.  Farther  and  far 
ther  from  the  ships  at  anchor,  the  lessening 
vessel  became.'  single  and  solitary  upon  the 
water.  The  sun  sank  in  the  west;  but  I 
watched  her  still.  Every  Hash  of  her  sails 
as  she  tacked  and  turned,  thrilled  my  hea.v. 

Yet  Prue  was  not  on  board.     I  had  never 


SEA   FROM    SHORE.  99 

-;een  one  of  the  passengers  or  the  crew.  I 
did  not  know  the  consignees,  nor  the  name 
of  the  vessel.  I  had  shipped  no  adventure, 
nor  risked  any  insurance,  nor  made  any  bet,, 
but  my  eyes  clung  to  her  as  Ariadne's  to 
the  fading  sail  of  Theseus.  The  ship  was. 
freighted  with  more  than  appeared  upon 
her  papers,  yet  she  was  not  a  smuggler. 
She  bore  all  there  was  of  that  nameless, 
lading,  yet  the  next  ship  would  carry  as. 
much.  She  was  freighted  with  fancy.  My 
hopes,  and  wishes,  and  vague  desires,  were 
all  on  board.  It  seemed  to  me  a  treasure 
not  less  rich  than  that  which  filled  the  East 
Indiaman  at  the  old  dock  in  my  boyhood. 

When,  at  length,  the  ship  was  a  sparkle 
upon  the  horizon,  I  waved  my  hand  in  last 
farewell,  I  strained  my  eyes  for  a  last 
glimpse.  My  mind  had  gone  to  sea,  and 
had  left  noise  behind.  But  now  I  heard 
again  the  multitudinous  murmur  of  the 
city,  and  went  down  rapidly,  and  threaded 
the  short,  narrow  streets  to  the  office.  Yet,, 
believe  it,  every  dream  of  that  day,  as  I 
watched  the  vessel,  was  written  at  night  to- 


IOO  PRUE   AND   I. 

Prue.  She  knew  my  heart  had  not  sailed 
away. 

Those  days  are  long  past  now,  but  still  I 
walk  upon  the  Battery  and  look  towards  the 
Narrows  and  know  that  beyond  them,  sep 
arated  only  by  the  sea,  are  many  of  whom  I 
would  so  gladly  know,  and  so  rarely  hear. 
The  sea  rolls  between  us  like  the  lapse  of 
dusky  ages.  They  trusted  themselves  to  it, 
and  it  bore  them  away  far  and  far  as  if  into 
the  past.  Last  night  I  read  of  Antony,  but 
I  have  not  heard  from  Christopher  these 
many  months,  and  by  so  much  farther  away 
is  he,  so  much  older  and  more  remote,  than 
Antony.  As  for  William,  he  is  as  vague  as 
any  of  the  shepherd  kings  of  ante-Pharaonic 
dynasties. 

It  is  the  sea  that  has  done  it,  it  has  carried 
them  off  and  put  them  away  upon  its  other 
side.  It  is  fortunate  t!ic  sea  did  not  put 
them  upon  its  underside.  Are  they  hale  and 
happy  still?  Is  their  hai;  gr:iy,  and  luivo 
thay  mustachios?  Or  havo  they  taken  to 
wig;  an  1  crutches  ?  Arc*  thoy  popas  or  car 
dinals  yet  ?  Do  they  feast  with  Lucrez'-\ 


SEA   FROM    SHORE.  IOI 

Borgia,  or  preach  red  republicanism  to  the 
Council  of  Ten  ?  Do  they  sing,  Behold  how 
orightly  breaks  the  morning  with  Masaniello? 
Do  they  laugh  at  Ulysses  and  skip  ashore  to 
the  Syrens  ?  Has  Mesrour,  chief  of  the 
Eunuchs,  caught  them  with  Zobeide  in  the 
Caliph's  garden,  or  have  they  made  cheese 
cakes  without  pepper  ?  Friends  of  my  y  outh> 
where  in  your  wanderings  have  you  tasted 
the  blissful  Lotus,  that  you  neither  come  nor 
send  us  tidings  ? 

Across  the  sea  also  came  idle  rumors  as 
false  reports  steal  into  history  and  defile  fair 
fames.  Was  it  longer  ago  than  yesterday 
that  I  walked  with  my  cousin,  then  recently 
;i  widow,  and  talked  with  her  of  the  coun 
tries  to  which  she  meant  to  sail  ?  She  was 
young,  and  dark-eyed,  and  wore  great  hoops 
of  gold,  barbaric  gold,  in  her  ears.  The 
hope  of  Italy,  the  thought  of  living  there, 
had  risen  like  a  dawn  in  the  darkness  of  her 
mind.  I  talked  and  listened  by  rapid  turns. 

Was  it  longer  ago  than  yesterday  that  she 
told  me  of  her  splendid  plans,  how  palaces 
tapestried  with  gorgeous  paintings  should  be 


102  PRUE   AND    I. 

cheaply  hired,  and  the  best  of  teachers  lead 
her  children  to  the  completest  and  most  vari 
ous  knowledge;  ho\v, — and  with  her  slender 
pittance! — she  should  have  a  box  at  the 
opera,  and  a  carriage,  and  liveried  servants, 
and  in  perfect  health  and  youth,  lead  a  per 
fect  life  in  a  perfect  climate? 

And  now  what  do  I  hear  ?  Why  does  a 
tear  sometimes  drop  so  audibly  upon  my 
paper,  that  Titbottom  looks  across  with  a 
sort  of  mild  rebuking  glance  of  inquiry, 
whether  it  is  kind  to  let  even  a  single  tear 
fail,  when  an  ocean  of  tears  is  pent  up  in 
hearts  that  would  burst  and  overflow  if  but 
one  drop  should  fores  its  way  out  ?  Why 
across  the  sea  came  faint  gusty  stories  like 
low  voices  in  the  wind,  of  a  cloistered  garden 
and  sunny  seclusion — and  a  life  of  unknown 
and  unexplained  luxury.  What  is  this  pic 
ture  of  a  pale  face  showered  with  streaming 
black  hair,  and  large  sad  eyes  looking  upon 
lovely  and  noble  children  playing  in  the 
sunshine — and  a  brow  pained  with  thought 
str  lining  iito  their  d°$tinv?  Who  is  this 
figure,  a  man  tali  an  1  c  >m  >ly,  with  melting 


SEA   FROM    SHORE.  10$ 

eyes  and  graceful  motion,  who  uomes  and 
goes  at  pleasure,  who  is  not  a  husband,  yet 
has  the  key  of  the  cloistered  garden  ? 

I  do  not  know.  They  are  secrets  of  the 
sea.  The  pictures  pass  before  ray  mind  sud 
denly  and  unawares,  and  I  feel  the  tears  ris 
ing  that  I  would  gladly  repress.  Titbottom 
looks  at  mej  then  stands  by  the  window  of 
the  office  and  leans  his  brow  against  the  cold 
iron  bars,  and  looks  down  into  the  little 
square  paved  court.  I  take  my  hat  and  steal 
out  of  the  office  fora  few  minutes,  and  slowly 
pace  the  hurrying  streets.  Meek-eyed  Alice  ! 
magnificent  Maud !  sweet  baby  Lilian ! 
why  does  the  sea  imprison  you  so  far  away, 
when  will  you  return,  where  do  you  linger  ? 
The  water  laps, idly  about  docks, — lies  calm, 
or  gaily  heaves.  Why  does  it  bring  me 
doubts  and  fears  now,  that  brought  such 
bounty  of  Iteauty  in  the  days  long  gone? 

I  remember  that  the  day  when  my  dark- 
haired  cousin,  with  hoops  of  barbaric  gold 
in  her  ears,  sailed  for  Italy,  was  quarter-day, 
and  we  balanced  the  books  at  the  office.  It 
was  nearly  noon,  and  in  my  impatience  to 


IO4  PRUE   AND   I. 

be  away,  I  had  not  added  my  columns  with 
sufficient  care.  The  inexorable  hand  of  the 
office  clock  pointed  sternly  towards  twelve, 
and  the  remorseless  pendulum  ticked  sol 
emnly  to  noon. 

To  a  man  Avhose  pleasures  are  not  many, 
and  rather  small,  the  loss  of  such  an  event 
as  s  lying  farewell  and  wishing  Godspeed  to 
a  friend  going  to  Europe,  is  a  great  loss.  It 
was  so  to  mo,  especially,  because  there  was 
always  more  to  me,  in  every  departure,  than 
tha  parting  and  the  farewell.  I  was  gradu 
ally  renouncing  this  pleasure,  as  I  saw  small 
prospect  of  ending  before  noon,  when  Tit- 
bottQin,  after  looking  at  me  a  moment,  came 
to  my  side  of  the  desk,  and  said  : 

"  I  should  like  to  finish  that  for  you." 
I  looked  at  him  :  poor  Titbottom  !  he  had 
no  friends  to  wish  God-speed  upon  any  jour 
ney.  I  quietly  wiped  my  pen,  took  down 
my  hat,  and  went  out.  It  was  in  the  days 
of  sail  packets  and  less  regularity,  when  go 
ing  to  Europe  was  more  of  an  epoch  in  life. 
How  gaily  my  cousin  stoo  1  upon  the  deck 
and  detailed  to  me  her  pla.i  !  How  merrily 


SEA   FROM    SHORE.  IOJ 

the  children  shouted  find  sang  !  How  long 
I  held  my  cousin's  little  hand  in  mine,  and 
gazed  into  her  great  eyes,  remembering 
that  they  would  see  and  touch  the  things 
•that  were  invisible  to  me  forever,  but  all  the 
more  precious  and  fair!  She  kissed  me — 
I  was  younger  then — there  were  teai:-v 
I  remember,  and  prayers,  and  promises,. 
a  waving  handkerchief, — a  fading  sail. 

It  was  only  the  other  day  that  I  saw  an 
other  parting  of  the  same  kind.  I  was  not  a. 
principal,  only  a  spectator  ;  but  so  fond  am 
I  of  sharing,  afar  off,  as  it  were,  and  unseen,, 
the  sympathies  of  human  beings,  that  I  can 
not  avoid  often  going  to  the  dock  upon 
steamer-days  and  giving  myself  to  that 
pleasant  and  melancholy  observation.  There 
is  always  a  crowd,  but  this  day  it  was  al 
most  impossible  to  advance  through  the 
masses  of  people.  The  eager  faces  hurried 
by  ;  a  constant  stream  poured  up  the  gang 
way  into  the  steamer,  and  the  upper  deck,, 
to  which  I  gradually  made  my  way,  was 
crowded  with  the  passengers  and  their 
friends. 


IO6  PRUE   AND   I. 

There  was  one  group  upon  which  my  eyes 
first  fell,  and  upon  which  my  memory  lingers. 
A  glance,  brHliant  as  daybreak — a  voice, 

*'  Her  voice's  music. — call  it  the  well's  bubbling,  the. 
birds's  warble," 

a  goddess  girdled  with  flowers,  and  smil 
ing  farewell  upon  a  circle  of  worshipers,  to 
each  ons  of  whom  that  gracious  calmness 
made  the  smile  sweeter,  and  the  farewell 
more  sad — other  figures,  other  flowers,  an 
angyl  face — all  these  I  saw  in  that  group  as 
I  was  swayed  up  and  down  the  deck  by  the 
e;ig  ?r  swarm  of  people.  The  hour  came,  and 
I  wont  on  shore  with  the  rest.  The  plank 
was  drawn  away — the  captain  raised  his 
hand — the  huge  steamer  slowly  moved — a 
cannon  was  fired — the  ship  was  gone.  ' 

The  sun  sparkled  upon  the  water  as  they 
s:iib  I  away.  In  five  minutes  the  steamer 
was  as  much  separated  from  the  shore  as  if 
it  had  been  at  saa  a  tho;is:ind  years. 

I  leaned  agiin.st  a  post  upon  the  dock 
anil  looked  nround.  Tlurj^d  upon  the  edge 
of  the  wharf  stood  that  bund  of  worshipers, 


SEA   FROM    SHORE.  IO/ 

-waving  handkerchiefs  and  straining  their 
eyes  to  see  the  last  smile  of  farewell — did 
any  eagar  selfish  eye  hope  to  see  a  tear? 
They  to  whom  the  handkerchiefs  were 
waved  stood  high  upon  the  stern,  holding 
flowers.  Over  them  hung  the  great  flag, 
raised  by  the  gentle  wind  into  the  graceful 
foils  of  a  canopy, — say  rather  a  gorgeous  gon 
falon  waved  over  the  triumphant  departure, 
over  that  supreme  youth,  and  bloom,  and 
beauty,  going  out  across  the  mystic  ocean  to 
carry  a  liner  charm  and  more  human  splen 
dor  into  those  realms  of  my  imagination 
beyond  the  sea. 

"  You  will  return,  O  youth  and  beauty  !  " 
I  s:iid  to  my  dreaming  and  foolish  setf,  as  I 
co  itrnplate  I  thos3  fair  figures,  "  richer  than 
Al  ^  in  br  with  Indian  spoils.  All  that  his- 
to '}",  association,  that  copious  civilization, 
th  >.>  5  grind  ours  an  I  graces  of  art,  that 
varietv  and  picturesq'13'iess  of  life,  will  mel 
low  and  deepen  your  experience  even  as  time 
silently  to-Hr>s  tho=?3  old  pictures  into  a 
more  persuasive  and  p-ithetic  beauty,  and  as 
this  increasing  summer  sheds  ever  softer 


108  PRUE  AND   I. 

luster  upon  the  landscape.  You  will  return 
conquerors  and  not  conquered.  You  will 
bring  Europe,  even  as  Aurelian  brought  Zeno- 
bia  captive,  to  deck  your  homeward  triumph. 
I  do  not  wonder  that  these  clouds  break 
away,  I  do  not  wonder  that  the  sun  presses 
out  and  floods  all  the  air,  and  land,  anil 
water,  with  light  that  graces  with  happy 
omens  your  stately  farewell." 

But  if  my  faded  face  looked  after  them 
with  such  earnest  and  longing  emotion, — I, 
a  solitary  old  man,  unknown  to  thoso  fair 
beings,  and  standing  apart  from  that  bund 
of  lovers,  yet  in  that  moment  bound  more 
closely  to  them  than  they  knew, — how  was 
it  witji  those  Avhose  hearts  sailed  away  with 
that  youth  and  beauty  ?  I  watched  them 
closely  from  behind  my  post.  I  knew  that 
life  had  paused  with  them  ;  that  the  world 
stood  still.  I  knew  that  the  long,  long  sum 
mer  would  be  only  a  yearning  regret.  I 
knew  that  each  asked  himself  the  mournful 
question, "  Is  this  parting  typical — this  slow, 
s:ul»  sweet  recession  ?  "  And  I  knew  that 
they  did  not  care  to  ask  wiiather  they  should 


SEA  FROM   SHORE.  109 

meet   again,  nor  dare   to  contemplate  the 
chances  of  the  sea. 

The  steamer  swept  on,  she  was  near  Staten 
Island,  and  a  tinal  gun  boomed  far  and  low 
across  the  water.  The  crowd  was  dispers 
ing,  but  the  little  group  remained.  Was  it 
not  all  Hood  had  sung  ? 

"  I  sa%v  thee,  lovely  Inez, 
Descend  along  the  shore 
With  bands  of  noble  gentlemen, 
And  banners  waved  before  ; 
And  gentle  youths  and  maidens  gay, 
And  snowy  plumes  they  wore  ; — 
It  would  have  been  a  beauteous  dream, 
If  it  had  been  no  more  !  " 

"  O  youth  !  "  I  said  to  them  without  speak 
ing,  "  be  it  gently  said,  as  it  is  solemnly 
thought,  should  they  return  no  more,  yet  in 
your  memories  the  high  hour  of  their  love- 
linoss  is  forever  enshrined.  Should  they 
come  no  more  they  never  will  be  old,  nor 
changed,  to  you.  You  will  wax  and  wane, 
you  will  suffer,  and  struggle,  and  grow  old  ; 
but  this  summer  vision  will  smile,  immortal, 
upon  your  lives,  and  those  fair  faces  shall 
shed,  forever,  from  under  that  slowly  wav 
ing  flag,  hops  and  peace." 


IIO  PRUE   AND   I. 

It  is  so  elsewhere ;  it  is  the  tenderness  of 
Nature.  Long,  long  ago  \ve  lost  our  first 
born,  Prue  and  I.  Since  then,  we  have 
grown  older  and  our  children  with  us. 
Change  comes,  and  grief,  perhaps,  and  decay. 
"We  are  happy,  our  children  are  obedient 
and  ga}r.  But  should  Prue  live  until  she 
has  lost  us  all,  and  laid  us,  gray  and  weary, 
in  our  graves,  she  will  have  always  one  babe 
in  her  heart  Every  mother  who  has  lost 
an  infant,  has  gained  a  child  of  immortal 
youth.  Can  you  find  comfort  here,  lovers, 
whose  mistress  has  sailed  away  ? 

I  did  not  ask  the  question  aloud,  I  thought 
it  only,  as  I  watched  the  youths,  and  turned 
away  while  they  still  stood  gazing.  One,  I 
observed,  climbed  a  post  and  waved  his 
black  hat  before  the  whitewashed  side  of 
the  shed  over  the  dock,  whence  I  supposed 
he  would  tumble  into  the  water.  Another 
had  tied  a  handkerchief  to  the  end  of  a 
somewhat  baggy  umbrella,  and  in  the  eager 
ness  of  gazing,  had  forgotten  to  wave  it,  so 
that  it  hung  mournfully  down,  as  if  over 
powered  with  grief  it  could  not  express. 


SEA   FROM   SHORE.  Ill 

The  entranced  youth  still  held  the  umbrella 
aloft.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  he  had  struck 
his  flag;  or  as  if  one  of  my  cravats  were 
airing  in  that  sunlight.  A  negro  carter  w;;s 
;ok:rig  with  an  apple- woman  at  the  entrance 
of  tlio  dock.  The  steamer  was  out  of  sight. 

I  found  that  I  was  belated  and  hurried 
b;;ck  to  my  desk.  Alas !  poor  lovers ;  I 
•wonder  if  they  are  watching  still  ?  Has  lie 
fallen  exhausted  from  the  post  into  the 
water?  Is  that  handkerchief,  bleached 
and  rent,  still  pendant  upon  that  somewhat 
baggy  umbrella? 

"  Youth  and   beautv  went  to  Europe  to- 

«/  1 

day,""  said  I  to  Prue,  us  I  stirred  my  tea  at 
evening. 

As  I  spoke,  our  youngest  (laughter  brought 
me  the  sugar.  She  is  just  eighteen,  and  her 
name  should  be  Hebe.  I  took  a  lump  of 
sugar  and  looked,  at  her.  She  had  never 
seemed  so  lovely,  and  as  I  dropped  the  lump 
in  my  cup,  I  kissed  her.  I  glanced  at  Prue 
as  I  did  so.  The  denr  worn -in  smiled,  but 
did  not  nns"*°"  nv  ^"H"'n:<tion. 

Thus,    wi'hont    t-<velin<r,    I    travel,   and 


112  PRUE  AND   I. 

share  the  emotions  of  those  I  do  not  know. 
But  sometimes  the  old  longing  comes  over 
me  as  in  the  days  when  I  timidly  touched 
the  huge  East  Indiaman,  and  magnetically 
sailed  around  the  world. 

It  was  but  a  few  days  after  the  lovers 
and  I  waved  farewell  to  the  steamer,  and 
while  the  lovely  figures  standing  under  the 
great  gonfalon  were  as  vivid  in  my  mind  as 
ever,  that  a  day  of  premature  sunny  sadness, 
like  those  of  the  Indian  summer,  drew  me 
away  from  the  office  early  in  the  afternoon  : 
for  fortunately  it  is  our  dull  season  now, 
and  even  Titbottom  sometimes  leaves  the 
office  by  live  o'clock.  Although  why  he 
should  leave  it,  or  where  he  goes,  or  what 
he  does,  I  do  not  well  know.  Before  I 
knew  him,  I  used  sometimes  to  meet  him 
with  a  man  whom  I  was  afterwards  told 
was  Bartleby,  the  scrivener.  Even  then  it 
seemed  to  me  that  they  rather  clubbed  their 
loneliness  than  made  society  for  each  other. 
Recently  1  have  not  seen  Bartleby  ;  but  Tit- 
bottom  seems  no  more  solitary  because  he 
is  alone. 


'ROM    SUCRE.  113 

I  strolled  into  the  Buttery  as  I  sauntered 
about.  Staten  Island  looked  so  alluring, 
tender-bued  with  summer  and  melting  in 
the  haze,  that  I  resolved  to  indulge  myself 
in  a  pleasure-trip.  It  was  a  little  selfish, 
perhaps,  to  go  alone,  but  1  looked  at  my 
watch  and  saw  that  if  I  should  hurry  home 
for  Frue  the  trip  would  be  lost ;  then  I 
sl'ouid  bo  disappointed,  r.r.  :  she  would  be 

8T.OVXU. 

Ought  I  not  rather  (I  like  to  begin  ques 
tions,  which  I  am  going  to  answer  affirma 
tively,  with  ought,}  to  take  the  trip  and  re 
count  my  adventures  to  Prue  upon  my  re 
turn,  whereby  I  should  actually  enjoy  the 
excursion  and  the  pleasure  of  telling  her ; 
while  she  would  enjoy  my  story  and  be  glad 
that  I  was  pleased?  Ought  I  wilfully  to 
deprive  us  both  of  this  various  enjoyment 
by  aiming  at  a  higher,  which,  in  losing,  we 
should  lose  all  ? 

Unfortunately,  just  as  I  was  triumphantly 
answering  "  Certainly  not!  "  another  ques 
tion  marched  into  my  mind,  escorted  by  a 

verv  defiant  ought. 
* 


114  PRUE  AND   I. 

"  Ought  I  to  go  when  I  have  such  a  debate 
about  it  ? " 

But  while  I  was  perplexed,  and  scoffing 
it  my  own  scruples,  the  ferry-bell  suddenly 
rang,  and  answered  all  my  questions.  In 
voluntarily  I  hurried  on  board.  The  boat 
slipped  from  the  dock.  I  went  up  on  deck 
to  enjoy  the  view  of  the  city  from  the  bay 
but  just  as  I  sat  down,  and  meant  to  have 
said  "  How  beautiful !  "  I  found  myself  ask 
ing: 

"  Ought  I  to  have  come  ?  " 

Lost  in  perplexing  debate,  I  saw  little  of 
the  scenery  of  the  bay ;  but  the  remem 
brance  of  Prue  and  the  gentle  influence  of 
the  day  plunged  me  into  a  mood  of  pensive 
reverie  which  nothing  tended  to  destroy, 
until  we  suddenly  arrived  at  the  landing. 

As  I  was  stepping  ashore,  I  was  greeted 
by  Mr.  Bourne,  who  passes  the  summer  on 
the  island,  and  who  hospitably  asked  }f  I 
were  going  his  way.  His  way  was  toward 
the  southern  end  of  the  island,  and  I  said  yes. 
His  pockets  were  full  of  papers  and  his  brow 
of  wrinkles ;  so  when  we  reached  the  point 


SEA  FROM  SHORE. 

where  he  should  turn  off,  I  asked  him  to  let 
me  alight,  although  he  was  verv  anxious  ta 

O  7  O  •/ 

carry  me  wherever  I  was  going. 

"  I  am  onl}T  strolling  about,''  I  answered', 
as  I  clambered  carefully  out  of  the  w:ig:>n. 

"Strolling  about:1"  asked  he,  in  a  s»e- 
wildered  manner;  "  do  people  stroll  r.u,..., 
nowadays  ? " 

"  Sometimes,"  I  answered,  smiling,  as  I 
pulled  my  trousers  down  over  my  boots,  for 
they  had  dragged  up,  as  I  stepped  out  of  the 
wagon,  "  and  beside,  what  can  an  old  book-, 
keeper  do  better  in  the  dull  season  than  stroll 
about  this  pleasant  island,  and  watch  the 
ships  at  sea?" 

Bourne  looked  at  me  with  his  Aveary  eyes. 

"  I'd  give  five  thousand  dollars  a  year  for 
a  dull  season,"  said  he,  "  but  as  for  strolling, 
I've  forgotten  how." 

As  he  spoke,  his  eyes  wandered  dreamily 
across  the  fields  and  woods,  and  were  fas 
tened  upon  the  distant  sails. 

"  It  is  pleasant,"  he  said  musingly,  and  fell 
into  silence.  But  I  had  no  time  to  spare,  so 
J  wished  him  good  afternoon. 


Il6  PRUE   AND   I, 

"  1  hope  your  wife  is  well,"  said  Bourne 
to  me,  as  I  turned  away.  Poor  Bourne! 
He  drove  on  alone  in  his  wagon. 

But  I  made  haste  to  the  most  solitary  point 
upon  the  southern  shore,  and  there  sat,  glad 
to  be  so  near  the  sea.  There  was  that  warm, 
sympathetic  silence  in  the  air,  that  gives  to 
Indian-summer  days  almost  a  human  tender 
ness  of  feeling.  A  delicate  haze,  that  seemeu 
only  the  kindly  air  made  visible,  hung  over 
the  sea.  The  water  lapped  languidly  among 
the  rocks,  and  the  voices  of  children  in  a 
boat  beyond,  rang  musically,  and  gradually 
receded,  until  they  were  lost  in  the  distance. 

It  was  some  time  before  I  was  aware  of 
the  outline  of  a  large  ship,  drawn  vaguely 
upon  the  mist,  which  I  supposed,  at  first,  to 
be  only  a  kind  of  mirage.  But  the  more 
steadfastly  I  gazed,  the  more  distinct  it  be 
came,  and  I  could  no  longer  doubt  that  I  saw 
a  stately  ship  lying  at  anchor,  not  more  than 
Lalf  a  mile  from  the  land. 

"  It  is  an  extraordinary  place  to  anchor," 
I  said  to  myself,  " or  can  she  be  ashore? " 

There  were  no  signs  of  distress  ;  the  sails 


SEA   FROM    SHORE.  1 1/ 

were  carefully  clewed  up,  and  there  were  no 
sailors  in  the  tops,  nor  upon  the  shrouds.  A 
flag,  of  which  1  could  not  see  the  device  or 
the  nation,  hung  heavily  at  the  stern,  and 
looked  as  if  it  had  fallen  asleep.  My  curi 
osity  began  to  be  singularly  excited.  The 
form  of  the  vessel  seemed  not  to  be  per 
manent  ;  but  within  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  I 
was  sure  that  I  had  seen  half  a  dozen  dif 
ferent  ships.  As  I  gazed,  I  saw  no  more 
sails  nor  masts,  but  a  long  range  of  oars, 
flashing  like  a  golden  fringe,  or  straight  and 
stiff,  like  the  legs  of  a  sea-monster. 

"  It  is  some  bloated  crab,  or  lobster,  mag 
nified  by  the  mist,''  I  said  to  myself,  com 
placently. 

But,  at  the  same  moment,  there  was  a  con 
centrated  flashing  and  blazing  in  one  spot 
among  the  rigging,  and  it  was  as  if  I  saw  a 
beatified  rain,  or,  more  truly,  a  sheepskin, 
splendid  as  the  hair  of  Berenice. 

"Is  that  the  golden  fleece?"  I  thought. 
"  But,  surely,  Jason  and  the  Argonauts  have 
gone  home  long  sinco.  Do  people  go  on 
gold-fleecing  expeditions  no;v?"  I  asked 


Il8  PRUE   AND   I. 

myself,  in  perplexity.  "  Can  this  be  a  Cali 
fornia  steamer?" 

How  could  I  have  thought  it  a  steamer? 
Did  I  not  see  those  sails,  "  thin  and  sere  ?  " 
Did  I  not  feel  the  melancholy  of  that  solitary 
bark  ?  It  had  a  mystic  aura ;  a  boreal  bril 
liancy  shimmered  in  its  wake,  for  it  was 
drifting  seaward.  A  strange  fear  curdled 
along  my  veins.  That  summer  sun  shone 
cool.  The  weary,  battered  ship  was  gashed, 
as  if  gnawed  by  ice.  There  was  terror  in 
the  air,  as  a  "  skinny  hand  so  brown  "  waved 
to  me  from  the  deck.  I  lay  as  one  bewitched. 
The  hand  of  the  ancient  mariner  seemed 
to  be  reaching  for  me,  like  the  hand  of 
death. 

Death?  Why,  as  I  was  inly  praying 
Prue's  forgiveness  for  my  solitary  ramble 
and  consequent  demise,  a  glance  like  the  ful 
ness  of  summer  splendor  gushed  over  me; 
the  odor  of  flowers  and  of  eastern  gums  made 
all  the  atmosphere.  I  breathed  the  orient, 
and  lay  drunk  with  balm,  while  that  strange 
ship,  a  golden  galley  now,  with  glittering 
draperies  festooned  with  flowers,  paced  to 


SEA   FROM    SHORE. 

the  measured  beat  of  oars  along  the  calm, 
and  Cleopatra  smiled  alluringly  from  the 
great  pageant's  heart. 

Was  this  a  barge  for  summer  waters,  this 
peculiar  ship  I  saw  ?  It  had  a  ruined  dignity, 
a  cumbrous  grandeur,  although  its  masts 
wore  shattered,  and  its  sails  rent.  It  hung 
preternatu rally  still  upon  the  sea.  as  if  tor 
mented  and  exhausted  by  long  driving  and 
(',.iff,ing.  I  saw  no  sailors,  but  a  grent  Span- 
lib  ensign  11  oa ted  over,  and  waved,  a  funeral 
pi urne.  I  knew  it  then.  The  armada  was. 
I.mg  since  scattered  ;  but,  floating  far, 

'•  On  desolate  rainy  seas/' 

lost  for  centuries,  and  again  restored  to  sight, 
Lere-  lay  one  of  the  fated  ships  of  Spain.  The 
};,,-;»  galleon  seemed  to  fill  all  the  air,  built 
n •>  against  the  sky,  like  the  gilded  ships  of 
(",md;-  Lorraine  against  the  sunset. 

B'it  it  fled,  for  now  a  black  flag  fluttered 
;.t  t!  e  mr'st-head — a  long  low  vessel  darted 
sv.  iftiv  where  the  vast  ship  lay  ;  there  came 
a  !-.!:ril!  p';>-r,g  whistle,  the  clash  of  cutlasses, 
fierce  ringing  oaths,  sharp  pistol  cracks,  the 


120  PRUE   AND    I. 

thunder  of  command,  and  over  all  the  gusty 
yell  of  a  demoniac  cborus, 

"  My  name  was  Robert  Kidd,  when  i"  sailed." 
— There  were  no  clouds  longer,  buv-  under  a 
serene  sky  I  saw  a  bark  moving  with  festal 
pomp,  thronged  with  grave  senators  in  flow 
ing  robes,  and  one  with  ducal  bonnet  in  the 
midst,  holding  a  ring.  The  smooth  bark 
swam  upon  a  sea  like  that  of  southern  lati 
tudes.  I  saw  the  Bucentoro  and  the  nuptials 
of  Venice  and  the  Adriatic. 

Who  were  those  coming  over  the  side  ? 
"Who  crowded  the  boats,  and  sprang  into  the 
•water,  men  in  old  Spanish  armor,  with 
plumes  and  swords,  and  bearing  a  glittering 
cross?  Who  was  he  standing  upon  the 
deck  with  folded  arms  and  gazing  towards 
the  shore,  as  lovers  on  their  mistresses  and 
martyrs  upon  heaven  ?  Over  what  distant 
and  tumultuous  seas  had  this  small  craft 
escaped  from  other  centuries  and  distant 
shores  I  What  sounds  of  foreign  hymns, 
forgotten  now,  were  these,  and  what  solem 
nity  of  debarkation  ?  Was  this  grave  form, 
Columbus  ? 


SEA    FROM    SHORE.  121 

Yet  these  were  not  so  Spanish  as  they 
seemed  just  now.  This  group  of  stern-faced 
men  with  high  peaked  hats,  who  knelt  upon 
the  cold  deck  and  looked  out  upon  a  shore 
which,  I  could  see  by  their  joyless  smile  of 
satisfaction,  was  rough,  and  bare,  and  for 
bidding.  In  that  soft  afternoon,  standing 
in  mournful  groups  upon  the  small  deck, 
why  did  they  seem  to  me  to  be  seeing  the 
sad  shores  of  wintry  New  England  ?  That 
phantom-ship  could  not  be  the  May  Flower! 

I  gazed  long  upon  the  shifting  illusion. 

"  If  I  should  board  this  ship,"  I  asked  my 
self,  "  where  should  I  go?  whom  should  I 
meet  ?  what  should  I  see  ?  Is  not  this  the 
vessel  that  shall  carry  me  to  my  Europe, 
my  foreign  countries,  my  impossible  India, 
the  Atlantis  that  I  have  lost  ? " 

As  I  sat  staring  at  it  I  could  not  but  won 
der  whether  Bourne  had  seen  this  sail  when 
he  looked  upon  the  water?  Does  be  see 
such  sights  every  day,  because  he  lives  down 
here?  Is  it  not  perhaps  a  magic  yacht  of 
his  ;  and  does  he  slip  off  privately  after  busi 
ness  hours  to  Venice,  and  Spain,  and  Egypt, 


122  PRUE   AND    I. 

perhaps  to  El  Dorado  ?  Does  he  run  races 
with  Ptolemy,  Philopater  and  Hiero  of 
Syracuse,  rare  regattas  on  fabulous  seas  ? 

"Why  not  ?  He  is  a  rich  man,  too,  and 
why  should  not  a  New  York  merchant  do 
•what  a  Syracuse  tyrant  and  an  Egyptian 
prince  did  ?  Has  Bourne's  yacht  those 
sumptuous  chambers,  like  Philopater's  gal 
ley,  of  which  the  greater  part  was  made  of 
split  cedar,  and  of  Milesian  cypress  ;  and 
lias  he  twenty  doors  put  together  with 
beams  of  citron  wood,  with  many  ornaments? 
Has  the  roof  of  his  cabin  a  carved  golden 
face,  and  is  his  sail  linen  with  a  purple 
fringe  ? 

"  I  suppose  it  is  so,"  I  said  to  myself,  as  I 
looked  wistfully  at  the  ship,  which  began  to 
glimmer  and  melt  in  the  haze. 

"  It  certainly  is  not  a  fishing-smack  ? "  I 
asked,  doubtfully. 

No,  it  must  be  Bourne's  magic  yacht  ; 
I  was  sure  of  it.  I  could  not  help  laughing 
at  poor  old  Hiero,  whose  cabins  were  di 
vided  into  many  rooms,  with  floors  composed 
of  mosaic  work,  of  all  kinds  of  stones  tessel- 


SEA   FROM    SHORE.  123 

lated.  And,  on  this  mosaic,  the  whole  story 
of  the  Iliad  was  depicted  in  a  marvelous 
manner.  He  had  gardens  "of  all  sorts  of 
most  wonderful  beauty,  enriched  with  all 
sorts  of  plants,  and  shadowed  by  roofs  of 
lead  or  tiles.  Apd,  besides  this,  there  were 
tents  roofed  with  boughs  of  white  ivy  and 
of  the  vine — the  roots  of  which  derived  their 
moisture  from  casks  full  of  earth,  and  were 
watered  in  the  same  manner  as  the  gardens. 
There  were  temples,  also,  with  doors  of  ivory 
and  citron-wood,  furnished  in  the  most  ex 
quisite  manner,  with  pictures  and  statues, 
and  with  goblets  and  vases  of  every  form 
and  shape  imaginable." 

"  Poor  Bourne  !  "  I  said.  "  I  suppose  his 
is  finer  than  Hiero's  which  is  a  thousand 
\7ears  old.  Poor  Bourne!  I  don't  wonder 
that  his  eyes  are  weary,  and  that  he  would 
pay  so  dearly  for  a  day  of  leisure.  Dear 
me !  is  it  one  of  the  prices  that  must  be  paid 
for  wealth,  the  keepimr  i^i  a  magic  yacht  ?" 

Involuntarily,  I  i.::d  nskcd  the  question 
aloud. 

"The  m.iine   vrscl-.t   i<  TV -t   TYmrnoV'an- 


124  PRUE   AND   I. 

swered  a  familiar  voice.  I  looked  up,  and 
Titbottom  stood  by  my  side.  "  Do  you  not 
know  that  all  Bourne's  money  would  not 
buy  the  yacht  ? "  asked  he.  "  He  cannot 
even  see  it.  And  if  he  could,  it  would  be 
110  magic  yacht  to  him,  but  only  a  battered 
and  solitary  hulk." 

The  haze  blew  gently  away,  as  Titbottom 
spoke,  and  there  lay  my  Spanish  galleon,  rny 
Bucentoro,  my  Cleopatra's  galley,  Colum- 
bus's  Santa  Maria,  and  the  Pilgrims'  May 
Flower,  an  old  bleaching  wreck  upon  the 
beach. 

"  Do  you  suppose  any  true  love  is  in  vain  ? " 
asked  Titbottom  solemnly,  as  he  stood  bare 
headed,  and  the  soft  sunset  wind  played  with 
his  few  hairs.  "  Could  Cleopatra  smile  upon 
Antony,  and  the  moon  upon  Endymion,  and 
the  sea  not  love  its  lovers  ?  " 

The  fresh  air  breathed  upon  our  faces  as 
he  spoke. 

I  might  have  sailed  in  Hiero's  ship,  or  in 
Koman  galleys,  had  I  lived  long  centuries 
ago,  and  been  born  a  nobleman.  But  would 
it  be  so  sweet  a  remembrance,  that  of  lying 


SEA   FROM   SHORE.  12$ 

on  a  marble  couch,  under  a  golden-faced 
roof,  and  within  doors  of  citron-wood  and 
ivory,  and  sailing  in  that  state  to  greet  queens, 
who  are  mummies  now,  as  that  of  seeing  those 
i'.iir  figures,  standing  under  the  great  gon- 
fa'on,  themselves  as  lovely  as  Egyptian  belles 
and  going  to  see  more  than  Egypt  dreamed  ? 
rl  he  yacht  was  mine,  then,  and  not 
Bou  -ne's.  I  took  Titbottom's  arm,  and  we 
sauntered  toward  the  ferry.  What  sump 
tuous  sultan  wns  I,  with  this  sad  vizier  ?  My 
lan<m:d  odalisque,  the  sea,  lay  at  my  feet  as 

V  V 

we  advanced,  and  sparkled  all  over  with  a 
sunset  smile.  Had  I  trusted  myself  to  her 
arms,  to  bo  borne  to  the  realms  that  I  shall 
never  see,  or  sailed  long  voyages  towards 
Cathay,  I  am  not  sure  I  should  have  brought 
a  more  precious  present  to  Prue,  than  the 
story  of  that  afternoon. 

"  Ought  I  to  have  gone  alone  ? "  I  asked 
her,  as  I  ended. 

"I  ought  not  to  have  gone  with  you," 
she  replied,  for  I  had  work  to  do.  But  how 
strange  that  you  should  see  such  things  at 
Staten  Island.  I  never  did,  Mr.  Titbottom," 


126  PRUE   AND    I. 

said  she,  turning  to  my  deputy  whom  I  had 
asked  to  tea. 

"  Madam,"  answered  Titbottom,  with  a 
kind  of  wan  and  quaint  dignity,  so  that  I 
could  not  help  thinking  he  must  have  ar 
rived  in  that  stray  ship  from  the  Spanish 
armada,  "  neither  did  Mr. 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES. 


**  In  my  mind's  eye,  Horatio." 

MtmlA 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES. 

"  In  my  mind's  eye,  Horatio." 

Hamlet. 

PRUE  and  I  do  not  entertain  much ;  our 
means  forbid  it.  In  truth,  other  people  en 
tertain  for  us.  We  enjoy  that  hospitality 
of  which  no  account  is  made.  We  see  the 
show,  and  hear  the  music,  and  smell  the  flow 
ers,  of  great  festivities,  tasting,  as  it  were, 
the  drippings  from  rich  dishes. 

Our  own  dinner  service  is  remarkably 
plain,  our  dinners,  even  on  state  occasions, 
are  strictly  in 'keeping,  and  almost  our  only 
guest  is  Titbottoin.  I  buy  a  handful  of  roses 
as  I  come  up  from  the  office,  perhaps,  and 
Prua  arranges  them  so  prettily  in  a  glass 
<lis'i  for  the  center  of  the  table,  that,  even 
when  I  (rive  Jr.irrie:!  out  to  see  Aurelia  step 
into  her  carriage)  to  go  out  to  dine,  I  have 

tho  r;!it  tbnt  thj  bouujiK't  she  cnrried  was 
i>  129 


130  PRUE   AND   L, 

not  more   beautiful    because    it  was  more 
costly. 

I  grant  that  it  was  more  harmonious  with 
her  superb  beauty  and  her  rich  attire.  And 
I  have  no  doubt  that  if  Aurelia  knew  the  old 
man,  whom  she  must  have  seen  so  often 
watching  her,  and  his  wife,  who  ornaments 
her  sex  with  as  much  sweetness,  although 

,  with  less  splendor,  than  Aurelia  herself,  she 
would  also  acknowledge  that  the  nosegay  of 
roses  was  as  line  and  fit  upon  their  table,  as 

•  her  own  sumptuous  bouquet  is  for  herself. 
I  have  so  much  faith  in  the  perception  of 
that  lovely  lady. 

It  is  my  habit, — I  hope  I  may  say,  my  na 
ture, — to  believe  the  best  of  people,  rather  than 
the  worst.  If  I  thought  that  all  this  spark 
ling  setting  of  beauty, — this  fine  fashion, — 
these  bla/ing  jewels,  and  lustrous  silks,  and 
airy  gauzes,  embellished  with  gold-threaded 
embroidery  and  wrought  in  a  thousand  ex 
quisite  elaborations,  so  that  I  cannot  see  one 
of  those  lovely  girls  pass  me  by,  without 
thanking  God  for  the  vision, —  if  I  thought 
that  this  was  all.  and  that,  underneath  her 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.         131 

lace  flounces  and  diamond  bracelets,  Aurelia 
was  a  sullen,  selfish  woman,  then  I  should 
turn  sadly  homeward,  for  I  should  see  that 
her  jewels  were  flashing  scorn  upon  the 
object  they  adorned,  that  her  laces  were  of 
a  more  exquisite  loveliness  than  the  woman 
whom  they  merely  touched  with  a  superficial 
grace.  It  would  be  like  a  gaily  decorated 
mausoleum, — bright  to  see,  but  silent  and 
dark  within. 

"  Great  excellences,  my  dear  Prue,"  I 
sometimes  allow  myself  to  say,  "  lie  con 
cealed  in  the  depths  of  character,  like  pearls 
at  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  Under  the  laugh 
ing,  glancing  surface,  how  little  they  are  sus 
pected  !  Perhaps  love  is  nothing  else  than 
.the  sight  of  them  by  one  person.  Hence 
every  man's  mistress  is  apt  to  be  an  enigma 
to  everybody  else. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  that  when  Aurelia  is 
engaged,  people  will  say  she  is  a  most  admi 
rable  girl,  certainly  ;  but  they  cannot  under 
stand  why  any  man  should  be  in  love  with 
her.  As  if  it  were  at  all  necessary  that  they 
should  !  And  her  lover,  like  a  boy  who  finds 


132  PRUE   AND   I. 

a  pearl  in  the  public  street,  and  wonders  as 
much  that  others  did  not  see  it  as  th;tt  he  did, 
will  tremble  until  he  knows  liis  passion  is  re 
turned  ;  feeling,  of  course,  that  the  whole 
world  must  be  in  love  with  this  paragon, 
who  cannot  possibly  smile  upon  anything  so 
unworthy  as  he. 

'••  1  hope,  therefore,  my  dear  Mrs.  Prue," 
I  continue,  and  my  wife  looks  up,  with 
pleased  pride,  from  her  work',  as  if  I  were 
such  an  irresistible  humorist,  "you  \villallo\v 
me  to  believe  that  the  depth  may  be  calm, 
although  the  surface  is  dancing.  If  you  tell 
me  that  Aurelia  is  buta^iddy  girl,  1  shall 
believe  that  you  thinks^*.  But  I  shall  know, 
n\\\  the  while,  what  profound  dignity,  ;:n<l 
s \veetn ess,  and  peace. lie  at  the  foundation  of 
IKT  character.** 

1  say  such  things toTitbottmn,  during  the 
dull  season  at  the  office.  And  I  luivo  known 
iiim  sometimes  to  reply,  witli  a  kind  of  dry, 
sad  humor,  not  PS  if  he  enjoyed  the  j<>!:'\ 
but  ns  if  the  joke  must  b«  made,  that  he  sa  \v 
Tto  reas-^'i  v'iv  I  should  be  dull  l»oca.use  the 
season  w.is  so. 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.         133 

"  And  what  do  I  know  of  Aurelia,  or  any 

other  girl  ? "  he  says  to  me  with  that  ab 
stracted  air;  "I  whose  Aurelias  were  of  an 
other  century,  and  another  zone." 

Then  he  falls  into  a  silence  which  it  seems 
quite  profane  to  interrupt.  But  as  we  sit 
upon  oar  high  stools,  at  the  desk,  opposite 
each  other,  I  leaning  upon  my  elbows,  and 
looking  at  him,  he,  with  sidelong  face,  glan 
cing  out  of  die  window,  as  if  it  commanded  a 
boundless  landscape,  instead  of  a  dim,  dingy 
office  court,  I  cannot  refrain  from  saying : 

"  Well ! " 

He  turns  slowly,  and  I  go  chatting  on, — 
a  little  too  loquacious  perhaps,  about  those 
young  girls.  But  I  know  that  Titbottom  re 
gards  such  an  excess  as  venial,  for  his  sadness 
is  so  sweet  that  you  could  believe  it  the  re 
flection  of  a  smile  from  long,  long  years  ago. 

One  day,  after  I  had  been  talking  for  a 
longtime,  and  we  had  put  up  our  books,  and 
were  preparing  to  leave,  he  stood  for  some? 
time  by  the  window,  gazing  with  a  drooping 
intent-ness,  as  if  he  really  saw  something 
more  than  tho  dark  court,  and  said  slowly  : 


134  FRUE   AND   I. 

"  Perhaps  you  would  have  different  im 
pressions  of  things,  if  you  saw  them  through 
my  spectacles." 

There  was  no  change  in  his  expression. 
He .  still  looked  from  the  window,  and  I 
said  : 

"  Titbottom,  I  did  not  know  that  you  used 
glasses.  I  have  never  seen  you  wearing 
spectacles." 

"  No,  I  don't  often  wear  them*  I  am  not 
very  fond  of  looking  through  them.  But 
sometimes  an  irresistible  necessity  compels 
me  to  put  them  on,  and  I  cannot  help 
seeing." 

Titbottom  sighed.  N 

"  Is  it  £o  grievous  a  fate  to  see  ? "  inquired  I. 

"Yes;  through  my  spectacles,"  he  said, 
turning  slowly,  and  looking  at  me  with  wan 
solemnity. 

It  grew  dark  as  we  stood  in  the  office 
talking,  and,  taking  our  hats,  we  went  out 
together.  The  narrow  street  of  business 
was  deserted.  The  heavy  iron  shutters 
were  gloomily  closed  over  the  windows. 
From  one  o;-  two  ollices  struggled  the  dim 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.         135 

gleam  of  an  early  cair^e,  by  whose  light 
some  perplexed  accountant  sat  belated,  and 
hunting  for  his  error.  A  careless  clerk 
passed,  whistling.  But  the  great  tide  of 
life  had  ebbed.  We  heard  its  roar  far 
away,  and  the  sound  stole  into  that  silent 
street  like  the  murmur  of  the  ocean  into  an 
inland  dell. 

"  You  will  come  and  dine  with  us,  Tit- 
bottom  ? " 

He  assented  by  continuing  to  walk  with 
me,  and  I  think  we  were  both  glad  when 
we  reached  the  house,  and  Prue  came  to 
meet  us,  saying : 

"  Do  you  know  I  hoped  you  would  bring 
Mr.  Titbottom  to  dine  ? " 

Titbottom  smiled  gently,  and  answered  : 

"He  might  have  brought  his  spectacles 
with  him,  and  have  been  a  happier  man  for  it." 

Prue  looked  a  little  puzzled. 

"My  dear,"  I  said,  "you  must  know  that 
our  friend,  Mr.  Titbottom,  is  the  happy 
possessor  of  a  pair  of  wonderful  spectacles. 
I  have  never  seen  them,  indeed  ;  and,  from 
what  he  says,  I  should  be  rather  afraid  of 


136  TRUE    AND   I. 

being  seen  by  them.  Most  shortsighted 
persons  are  very  glad  to  have  the  help  of 
glasses ;  but  Mr.  Titbottom  seems  to  find 
very  little  pleasure  in  his." 

"  It  is  because  they  make  him  too  far- 
sighted,  perhaps/'  interrnpted  Prue  quietly, 
:.s  she  to;>k  the  silver  soup-ladle  from  the 
sideboard. 

We  sip{>ed  our  wine  after  dinner,  and 
Prue  took  hor  work.  Can  a  nr.m  be  too 
far-sighted  ?  I  did  not  ask  the  question 
aloud.  The  very  tone  in  which  Prue  had 
spoken,  convinced  me  that  he  might. 

"At  least,"  I  s:iid,  "Mr.  Titbottom  will 
not  refuse  to  tell  us  tho  history  of  his  mys 
terious  spectacles.  I  have  known  plenty 
of  magic  in  eyes  (and  I  glanced  at  the 
tender  blue  eyes  of  Prue),  but  I  have  not 
heard  of  any  enchanted  glasses." 

"  Yet  you  must  have  seen  the  glass  in 
which  your  wife  looks  every  morning,  and, 
I  take  it,  that  glass  must  be  daily  enchanted," 
said  Titbottom,  with  a  bow  of  quaint  respect 
to  my  wife. 

I  do  not  think  I  have  seen  such  a  blush 


TITBOTTOM'S   SPECTACLES.  137 

upon  Prue's  cheek  since — well,  since  a  great 

many  years  ago. 

"  I  will  gladly  tell  you  the  history  of  ray 
spectacles,"  begun  Titbottom.  "  It  is  very 
simple ;  and  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  a  great 
many  other  people  have  not  a  pair  of  the 
s:une  kind.  I  have  never,  indeed,  heard  of 
them  by  the  gross,  like  those  of  our  young1 
friend,  Mosss,  the  son  of  the  Vicar  of  Wake- 
lield.  In  fact,  I  think  a  gross  would  be 
quite  enough  to  supply  the  world.  It  is  a 
kind  of  article  for  which  the  demand  does 
not  increase  with  use.  If  we  should  all 
wear  spectacles  like  mine,  we  should  never 
smile  any  more.  Or — I  am  not  quite  sure — 
we  should  all  be  very  happy." 

"  A  very  important  difference,"  said  Prue, 
counting  her  stitches. 

'•  You  know  my  grandfather  Titbottom 
was  a  West  Indian.  A  large  proprietor, 
and  a  easy  man,  be  basked  in  the  tropical 
sun,  leading  his  quiet,  luxurious  life.  He 
lived  much  alone,  and  ivas  Tvhat  people  call 
eccentric — by  which  I  understand,  that  he 
was  very  much  himselfj  and,  refusing  the 


138  PRUE   AND    I. 

influence  of  other  people,  they  had  their  re 
venges,  and  called  him  names.  Ti  is  a  habit 
not  exclusively  tropical.  I  think  I  have  seen 
the  same  thing  even  in  this  city. 

"  But  he  was  greatly  beloved — my  bland 
and  bountiful  grandfather.  He  was  so 
large-hearted  and  open-handed.  He  was  so 
friendly,  and  thoughtful,  and  genial,  that  even 
his  jokes  had  the  air  of  graceful  benedic 
tions.  He  did  not  seem  to  grow  old,  and  he 
was  one  of  those  who  never  appear  to  have 
been  very  young.  He  flourished  in  a  per 
ennial  maturity,  and  immortal  middle-age. 

"My  grandfather  lived  upon  one  of  the 
small  islands — St.  Kitt's,  perhaps — and  his 
domain  extended  to  the  sea.  His  house,  a 
rambling  West  Indian  mansion,  was  sur 
rounded  with  deep,  spacious  piazzas,  covered 
with  luxurious  lounges,  among  which  one 
capacious  chair  was  his  peculiar  seat.  They 
tell  me,  he  used  sometimes  to  sit  there  for 
the  whole  day,  his  great,  soft,  brown  eyes 
fastened  upon  the  sea,  watching  the  specks 
of  sails  that  flashed  upon  the  horizon,  while 
the  evanescent  expressions  chased  each  other 


TTTBOTTOMS  SPECTACLES.  139 

over  his  placid  face  as  if  it  reflected  the 
calm  and  changing  sea  before  him. 

"  His  morning  costume  was  an  ample 
dressing-gown  of  gorgeously-flowered  silk, 
and  his.  morning  was  very  apt  to  last  all 
•day.  He  rarely  read ;  but  he  would  pace 
the  great  piazza  for  hours,  with  his  hands 
buried  in  the  pockets  of  his  dressing-gown, 
and  an  air  of  sweet  reverie,  which  any  book 
must  be  a  very  entertaining  one  to  produce. 

"  Society,  of  course,  he  saw  little.  There 
was  some  slight  apprehension  that,  if  he 
Avere  bidden  to  social  entertainments,  he 
might  forget  his  coat,  or  arrive  without 
•some  other  essential  part  of  his  dress  ;  and 
there  is  a  sly  tradition  in  the  Titbottom 
family,  that  once,  having  been  invited  to  a 
ball  in  honor  of  a  new  governor  of  the 
island,  my  grandfather  Titbottom  sauntered 
into  the  hall  towards  midnight,  wrapped  in 
the  gorgeous  flowers  of  his  dressing-gown, 
and  with  his  hands  buried  in  the  pockets,  as 
usual.  There  was  great  excitement  among 
the  guests,  and  immense  deprecation  of  guber 
natorial  ire.  Fortunately,  it  happened  that 


140  PRUE   AND   I. 

the  governor  and  ray  grandfather  were  old 
friends,  and  there  was  no  offense.  But,  as 
they  were  conversing  together,  one  of  the 
distressed  managers  cast  indignant  glances 
at  the  brilliant  costume  of  my  grandfather, 
who  summoned  him,  and  asked  courteously  : 

"  '  Did  you  invite  me,  or  my  coat  ( ' 

"'You,  in  a  proper  coat,'  replied  the 
manager, 

"  The  governor  smiled  approvingly,  anJ 
looked  at  my  grandfather. 

"  'My  friend,'  said  he  to  the  manager,  '  1 
beg  your  pardon,  I  forgot.' 

"  The  next  day,  my  grandfather  was  seen 
promenading  in  full  ball  dress  along  the 
streets  of  the  little  town. 

" '  They  ought  to  know,'  said  he,  5  that 
I  have  a  proper  coat,  and  that  not  contempt, 
nor  poverty,  but  forgetfulncss,  sent  me  to  a 
ball  in  my  dressing-gown.' 

"He  did  not  much  frequent  social  festi 
vals  after  this  failure,  but  he  always  told  the 
story  with  satisfaction  and  a  quiet  smile. 

"  To  a  stranger,  life  upon  those  little  islands 
is  uniform  even  to  weariness.  But  the  old 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.         141 

native  dons,  like  my  grandfather,  ripen  in 
the  prolonged  sunshine,  like  the  turtle  upon 
the  Bahama  banks,  nor  know  of  existence 
more  desirable.  Life  in  the  tropics,  I  take 
to  be  a  placid  torpidity. 

"  During  the  long,  warm  mornings  of 
nearly  half  a  century,  my  grand  lather  Tit- 
bottom  had  sat  in  his  dressing-gown,  and 
gazed  at  the  sea.  lJut  one  calm  June  day,  as  he 
slowly  paced  the  piazza  after  breakfast,  his 
dreamy  glance  was  arrested  by  a  little  ves 
sel,  evidently  nearing  the  shore.  lie  called 
for  his  spy-glass,  and,  surveying  the  craft, 
saw  that  she  came  from  the  neighboring 
island.  Slu  glided,  smoothly,  slowly,  over 
the  summer  sea.  The  warm  morning  air 
was  sweet  with  perfumes,  and  silent  with 
heat.  The  sea  sparkled  languidly,  and  the 
brilliant  blue  sky  hung  cloudlessly  over. 
Scores  of  little  island  vessels  had  my  grand 
father  seen  coming  over  the  horizon,  and 
cast  anchor  in  the  port.  Hundreds  of  sum 
mer  morniniis  h:ul  the  white  sails  flashed 
and  faded,  like  v.-cjuo  f-ices  through  forgot 
ten  dr. vims,  r.tit  th  s  timo  ho  l:;id  down  the 


142  PRUE  AND  I. 

spy-glass,  and  leaned  against  a  column  of  the 
piazza,  and  watched  the  vessel  with  an  in- 
tentness  that  he  couM  not  explain.  She 
came  nearer  and  nearer,  a  graceful  specter 
in  the  dazzling  morning. 

" '  Decidedly,  I  must  step  down  and  see 
about  that  vessel,'  said  my  grandfather 
Titbottom. 

"He  gathered  his  ample  dressing-gown 
about  him,  and  stepped  from  the  piazza,  with 
no  other  protection  from  the  sun  than  the  little 
smoking  cap  upon  his  head.  His  face  wore 
a  calm,  beaming  smile,  as  if  he  loved  the 
Avhole  world.  He  was  not  an  old  man  ;  but 
there  was  almost  a  patriarchal  pathos  in  his 
expression,  as  he  sauntered  along  in  the  sun 
shine  towards  the  shore.  A  group  of  idle 
gazers  was  collected,  to  watch  the  arrival. 
The  little  vessel  furled  her  sails,  and  drifted 
slowly  landwards,  and,  as  she  was  of  very 
light  draft,  she  came  close  to  the  shelving 
shore.  A  long  plank  was  put  out  from  her 
side,  and  the  debarkation  commenced. 

"  My  grandfather  Titbottom  stood  look 
ing  on,  to  see  tho  passengers  as  they  passed. 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.         143 

There  were  but  a  fe\\r  of  them,  and  mostly 
traders  from  the  neighboring  island.  But 
suddenly  the  face  of  a  young  girl  appeared 
over  the  side  of  the  vessel,  and  she  stepped 
upon  the  plank  to  descend.  My  grandfather 
Titbottom  instantly  advanced,  and,  moving 
briskly,  reached  the  top  of  the  plank  at  the 
same  moment,  and  with  the  old  tassel  of  his 
cap  flashing  in  the  sun,  and  one  hand  in  the 
pocket  of  his  dressing-gown,  with  the  other 
he  handed  the  young  lady  careful^  down 
the  plank.  That  young  lady  was  afterwards 
my  grandmother  Titbottom. 

"  For,  over  the  gleaming  sea  which  he  had 
watched  so  long,  and  which  seemed  thus  to 
reward  his  patient  gaze,  came  his  bride  that 
sunny  morning. 

" '  Of  course,  we  are  happy,'  he  used  to 
say  to  her,  after  they  were  married :  '  For 
you  are  the  gift  of  the  sun  I  have  loved  so 
lomnmd  so  well.'  And  mv  grand  father  Tit- 

O  *s       O 

bottom  would  lay  his  hand  so  tenderly  upon 
the  golden  hair  of  his  young  bride,  that  you 
could  fancy  him  a  devout  Parsee,  caressing 
sunbeams. 


144  PRUE  AND  I. 

"  There  were  endless  festivities  upon  oc 
casion  of  the  marriage ;  and  my  grand 
father  did  not  go  to  one  of  them  in  his 
dressing-gown.  The  gentle  sweetness  of  his 
wife  melted  every  heart  into  love  and  sym 
pathy.  He  was  much  older  than  she,  with 
out  doubt.  But  agt.-,  as  ho  used  to  say  with 
a  smilo  of  immortal  youth,  is  a  matter  of 
feeling,  not  of  years.Uj^, 

"  And  if,  sometimes,  as  she  sat  by  his  side 
on  the  piazza,  her  fancy  looked  through  her 
eyes  upon  that  summer  sea,  and  saw  a  younger 
lover,  perhaps  some  one  of  those  graceful 
and  glowing  heroes  who  occupy  the  fore 
ground  of  all  young  maidens'  visions  by  the 
sea,  yet  she  could  not  find  one  more  generous 
and  gracious,  nor  fancy  one  more  worthy 
and  loving  than  my  grandfather  Titbottom. 

"And  if,  in  the  moonlit  midnight,  while 
he  lay  calmly  sleeping,  she  leaned  out  of  the 
window,  and  sank  into  vague  reveries  of 
sweet  possibility,  and  watched  the  gleaming 
path  of  the  moonlight  upon  the  water,  until 
the  dawn  glided  over  it — it  was  only  that 
mood  of  nameless  ro~rot  and  longing,  which 


TITEOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.         145 

•underlies  tul  human  happiness;  or  it  was  the 
vision  of  that  life  of  cities  and  the  world, 
which  she  had  never  seen,  but  of  which  she 
had  often  read,  and  which  looked  very  fair 
and  alluring  across  the  sea,  to  a  girlish  im 
agination,  which  knew  that  it  should  never 
see  that  reality. 

"  These  West  Indian  years  were  the  great 
days  of  the  family,"  said  Titbottom,  with  an 
air  of  majestic  and  regal  regret,  pausing,  and 
musing,  in  our  little  parlor,  like  a  late  Stuart 
in  exile,  remembering  England. 

Prue  raised  her  eyes  from  her  work,  and 
looked  at  him  with  subdued  admiration  ;  for 
I  have  observed  that,  like  the  rest  of  her 
sex,  she  has  a  singular  sympathy  with  the 
representative  of  a  reduced  family. 

Perhaps  it  is  their  finer  perception,  which. 
1-jads  these  tender-hearted  women  to  recog- 
niz3  the  divine  right  of  social  superiority  so 
much  more  readily  than  we  ;  and  yet,  much 
as  Titbottom  was  enhanced  in  my  wife's 
admiration  by  the  discovery  that  his  dusky 
sadness  of  nature  and  expression  was,  as  it 
w>:*'\  the  expiring  gleam  and  late  twilight 


146  PRUE   AND    I. 

of  ancestral  splendors.  I  doubt  if  Mr.  Bourne 
would  have  preferred  him  for  bookkeeper 
a  moment  sooner  upon  that  account.  In 
truth,  I  have  observed,  down  town,  that  the 
fact  of  your  ancestors  doing  nothing1,  is  not 
considered  good  proof  that  you  can  do  i.r.y- 
thing. 

But  Prue  and  her  sex  regard  soiitiitu-:  t 
more  than  action,  and  I  understand  tas.ly 
enough  why  she  is  uever  tired  of  hearing  in  j 
read  of  Prince  Charlie.  If  Titboitom  l.;.d 
been  only  a  little  younger,  a  little  hard- 
somer,  a  little  more  gallantly  dressc.  1 — in  fact, 
a  little  more  of  a  Prince  Charlie,  I  am  sure 
her  eyes  would  not  have  fallen  again  upon 
her  work  so  tranquilly,  as  he  resumed  his 
story. 

"  I  can  remember  my  grandfather  Titbot 
torn,  although  I  was  a  very  young  child, and 
he  was  a  very  old  man.  My  young  mother 
and  my  young  grandmother  are  very  dis 
tinct  figures  in  my  memory,  ministering  to 
the  old  gentleman,  wrapped  in  his  dressing- 
gown,  and  seated  upon  the  piazza.  I  remem 
ber  his  white  hair,  and  his  calm  smile,  a:;d 


TITBOTTOM'S   SPECTACLES.  147 

how,  not  long  before  he  died,  he  called  me 
to  him,  and  laying  his  hand  upon  my  headr 
said  to  me : 

"• '  My  child,  the  world  is  not  this  great 
sunny  piazza,  nor  life  the  fairy  stories 
which  tho  women  tell  you  here,  as  you  sit 
i:i  their  laps.  I  shall  soon  be  gone,  but  I 
want  to  leave  with  you  some  memento  of 
my  love  for  you,  and  I  know  of  nothing- 
more  valuable  than  these  spectacles,  which 
your  grandmother  brought  from  her  native 
island,  when  she  arrived  here  one  fine  sum 
mer  morning,  long  ago.  I  cannot  tell 
whether,  when,  you  grow  older,  you  will  re 
gard  them  as  a  gift  of  the  greatest  value,  or 
as  something  that  you  had  been  happier  never 
to  have  possessed.' 

" '  But,  grandpapa,  I  am  not  short-sighted/ 

"  '  My  son,  are  you  not  human  ? '  said  the 

old  gentleman  ;  and  how  shall  I  ever  forget 

the  thoughtful  sadness  with   which,  at  the 

o  > 

same  time,  he  handed  me  the  spectacles. 

"  Instinctively  I  put  them  on,  and  looked 
at  my  grandfather.  But  I  saw  no  grand 
father,  no  piazza,  no  flowered  dressing-gown  ; 


148  PRUE   AND    I. 

I  saw  only  a  luxuriant  palm-tree,  waving 
broadly  over  a  tranquil  landscape  ;  pleasant 
homes  clustered  around  it;  gardens  teeming 
with  fruit  and  flowers  ;  flocks  quietly  feed 
ing;  birds  wheeling  and  chirping.'  I  heard 
children's  voices,  and  the  low  lullaby  of 
happy  mothers.  The  sound  of  cheerful 
singing  came  wafted  from  distant  fields  upon 
the  light  breeze.  Golden  harvests  glistened 
out  of  sight,  and  I  caught  their  rustling 
whispers  of  prosperity.  A  warm,  mellow 
atmosphere  bathed  the  whole. 

"  I  have  seen  copies  of  the  landscapes  of 
the  Italian  painter  Claude,  which  seemed  to 
me  faint  reminiscences  of  that  calm  and 
happy  vision.  But  all  this  peace  and  pros 
perity  seemed  to  flow  from  the  spreading 
palm  as  from  a  fountain. 

"  I  do  not  know  how  long  I  looked,  but  I 
had,  apparently,  no  power,  as  T  had  no  will, 
to  remove  the  spectacles.  What  a  wonder 
ful  island  must  Nevis  be,  thought  I,  if  people 
carry  such  pictures  in  their  pockets,  only  by 
buying  a  pair  of  spectacles  !  What  wonder 
that  my  dear  grandmother  Tit  bottom  has 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.         149 

lived  such  a  placid  life,  and  has  blessed  us 
all  with  her  sunny  temper,  when  she  has. 
lived  surrounded  by  such  images  of  peace  ! 

"  My  grandfather  died.  But  still,  in  the 
warm  morning  sunshine  upon  the  piazza,  I 
felt  his  placid  presence,  and  as  I  crawled 
into  his  great  chair,  and  drifted  on  in  reverie 
through  the  still  tropical  day,  it  was  as  if 
his  soft  dreamy  eye  had  passed  into  my  soul. 
My  grandmother  cherished  his  memory  with, 
tender  regret.  A  violent  passion  of  grief 
for  his  loss  was  no  more  possible  than  for 
the  pensive  decay  of  the  year. 

"  We  have  no  portrait  of  him,  but  I  see- 
always,  when  I  remember  him,  that  peaceful 
and  luxuriant  palm.  And  I  think  that  to> 
have  known  one  good  old  man — one  man 
who,  through  the  chances  and  rubs  of  a  long, 
life,  has  carried  his  heart  in  his  hand,  like  a, 
palm  branch,  waving  all  discords  into  peace,, 
helps  our  faith  in  God,  in  ourselves,  and  in 
each  other,  more  than  many  sermons.  I 
hardly  know  whether  to  be  grateful  to  my 
grandfather  for  the  spectacles ;  and  yet 
when  I  remember  that  it  is  to  them  I  owe, 


150  PRUE  AND   I. 

the  pleasant  image  of  him  which  I  cherish 
I  seem  to  myself  sadly  ungrateful. 

"  Madam,"  said  Tit  bottom  to  Prue,  sol 
emnly,  "my  memory  is  a  long  ami  glooinv 
gallery,  and  only  remotely,  at  its  further 
end,  do  I  see  the  glimmer  of  soft  sunshine, 
and  only  there  are  the  .pleasant  pictures 
hung.  They  seem  to  me  very  happy  along 
whose  gallery  the  sunlight  streams  to  their 
very  feet,  striking  all  the  pictured  walls  into 
unfading  splendor." 

Prue  had  laid  her  \vork  in  her  lap,  and  as 
Titbottom  paused  a  moment,  and  I  turned 
towards  her,  I  found  her  mild  eyes  fastened 
upon  my  face,  and  glistening  with  many 
tears.  I  knew  that  the  tears  meant  that  she 
felt  herself  to  be  one  of  those  who  seemed 
to  Titbottom  very  happ}7. 

"  Misfortunes  of  many  kinds  came  heavily 
upon  the  family  after  the  head  was  gone. 
The  great  house  was  relinquished.  My 
parents  were  both  dead,  and  my  grand 
mother  had  entire  charge  of  me.  But  from 
the  moment  that  I  received  the  gift  of  the 
-.spectacles,  I  could  i:ot  ivsist  tl.eir  fascination, 


TITBOTTOM'S   SPECTACLES.  151 

and  I  withdrew  into  myself,  and  became  a. 
solitary  boy.  There  Avere  not  many  com 
panions  for  me  of  my  own  age,  and  they 
gradually  left  me,  or,  at  least,  had  not  a 
Learty  s}rmpathy  with  me;  for,  if  they 
teased  me,  I  pulled  out  my  spectacles  and 
surveyed  them  so  seriously  that  they  acquired 
a  kind  of  awe  of  me,  and  evidently  regarded 
my  grandfather's  gift  as  a  concealed  magical 
weapon  which  might  be  dangerously  drawn, 
upon  them  at  any  moment.  Whenever,  ia 
our  games,  there  were  quarrels  and  high 
words,  and  I  began  to  feel  about  my  dresa 
and  to  wear  a  grave  look,  they  all  took  the 
alarm,  and  shouted,  '  Look  out  for  Titbot- 
tom's  spectacles,'  and  scattered  like  a  flock 
of  scared  sheep. 

"  Nor  could  I  wonder  at  it.  For,  at  first, 
before  they  took  the  alarm,  I  saw  strange 
sights  when  I  looked  at  them  through  the 
glasses. 

"  If  two  were  quarreling  about  a  marble 
or  a  ball,  I  had  only  to  go  behind  a  tree 
where  I  was  concealed  and  look  at  them 
/eisurely.  Then  the  scene  changed,  and  it 


352  PRUE   AND    I. 

was  no  longer  a  green  meadow  with  boys 
playing,  but  a  spot  which  I  did  not  recognize, 
and  forms  that  made  me  shudder,  or  smile. 
It  was  not  a  big  boy  bullying  a  little  one, 
but  a  yo-.mg  wolf  with  glistening  teeth  and 
a  lamb  cowering  before  him  ;  or,  it  was  a 
<log  faithful  and  famishing — or  a  star  going 
slowly  into  eclipse — or  a  rainbow  fading— 
•or  a  flower  blooming — or  a  sun  rising — or  a 
waning  moon. 

"  The  revelations  of  the  spectacles  deter- 
in  inc-d  my  feeling  for  the  boys,  and  for  all 
AY  horn  I  saw  through  them.  No  shyness, 
nor  awkwardness,  nor  silence,  could  separate 
me  from  those  who  looked  lovely  as  lilies  to 
my  illuminated  eyes.  But  the  vision  made 
me  afraid.  It  I  felt  myself  warmly  drawn 
to  any  one,  I  struggled  with  the  fierce  desire 
•of  seeing  him  through  the  spectacles,  for  I 
feared  to  find  him  something  else  than  I 
fancied.  I  longed  to  enjoy  the  luxury  of 
ignorant  feeling,  to  love  without  knowing, 
to  float  like  a  leaf  upon  the  eddies  of  life, 
-drifted  now  to  a  sunny  point,  now  to  a 
•solemn  shade — now  ovor  glittering  ripples, 


TITBOTTOM'S    SPECTACLES.  153 

now  over  gleaming  calms, — and  not  to 
determined  ports,  a  trim  vessel  with  an  inex 
orable  rudder. 

"  But    sometimes,    mastered    after    long 
strujwles,  as  if  the  unavoidable  condition  of 

OO  7 

owning  the  spectacles  were  using  them,  I 
seized  them  and  sauntered  into  the  little 
town.  Putting  them  to  ray  eyes  I  peered, 
into  the  houses  and  at  the  people  who  passed 
me.  Here, sat  a  family  at  breakfast,  and  I 
stood  at  the  window  looking  in.  O  motley 
meal  !  fantastic  vision  !  The  good  mother 
saw  her  lord  sitting  opposite,  a  grave,  re 
spectable  being,  eating  muffins.  But  I  saw 
only  a  bank-bill,  more  or  less  crumbled  and 
tattered,  marked  with  a  larger  or  lesser- 
figure.  If  a  sharp  wind  blew  suddenly,  I 
saw  it  tremble  and  flutter  ;  it  was  thin,  flat,, 
impalpable.  I  removed  my  glasses,  and 
looked  with  my  eyes  at  the  wife.  I  tould 
have  smiled  to  see  the  humid  tenderness  with 
which  she  regarded  her  strange  r/.v  ft  •/•/.<?. 
Is  life  only  a  g:m;  of  blind  man's- buIH  of 
droll  cross-purposes? 

"Or  I  put  t  i.-::i  <TI  ?V".Mn,  -°r>d  ;ho'i  looked 


154  PRUE   AND    I. 

at  the  wives.  How  many  stout  trees  J  saw, 
— bow  many  tender  flowers, — how  many 
placid  pools ;  yes,  and  how  many  little  streams 
winding  out  of  sight,  shrinking  before  the 
large,  hard,  round  eyes  opposite,  and  slipping 
off  into  solitude  and  shade,  with  a  low,  inner 
song  for  their  own  solace. 

"  In  many  houses  I  thought  to  see  angels, 
nymphs,  or,  at  least,  women,  and  could  only 
find  broomsticks,  mops,  or  kettles,  hurrying 
about,  rattling  and  tinkling,  in  a  state  of 
shrill  activity.  I  made  calls  upon  elegant 
ladies,  and  after  1  had  enjoyed  the  gloss  of 
silk,  and  the  delicacy  of  lace,  and  the  glitter 
of  jewels,  I  slipped  on  my  spectacles,  and 
sa\v  a  peacock's  feather,  flounced,  and  furbe- 
lowed,  and  fluttering  ;  or  an  iron  rod,  thin, 
sharp,  and  hard  ;  nor  could  I  possibly  mis 
take  the  movement  of  the  drapery  for  any 
flexibility  of  the  thing  draped. 

"  Or,  mysteriously  chilled,  I  saw  a  statue 
of  perfect  form,  or  flowing  movement,  it 
might  be  alabaster,  or  bronze,  or  marble, — 
Iwt  sadly  often  it  was  ice ;  and  I  knew  that 
lifter  it  had  shone  a  little,  a:*.d  frozen  a  few 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.         155 

eyes  with  its  despairing  perfection,  it  could 
not  be  put  away  in  the  niches  of  palaces  for 
ornament  and  proud  family  tradition,  like 
the  alabaster,  or  bronze,  or  marble  statues, 
but  would  melt,  and  shrink,  and  fall  coldly 
away  in  colorless  and  useless  water,  be  ab 
sorbed  in  the  earth  and  utterly  forgotten. 

"  But  the  true  sadness  was  rather  in  see 
ing  those  who,  not  having  the  spectacles, 
thought  that  the  iron  rod  was  flexible,  and 
the  ice  status  warm.  I  saw  many  a  gallant 
heart,  which  seemed  to  me  brave  and  loyal 
as  the  crusaders,  pursuing,  through  days  and 
nights,  ami  a  long  life  of  devotion,  the  hope 
of  lighting  at  least  a  smile  in  the  cold  eves, 

O  fj  v  * 

if  not  a  tiro  in  the  icy  heart.  I  watched  the 
earnest,  enthusiastic  sacrifice.  I  saw  the 
pure  resolve,  the  generous  faith,  the  fine 
scorn  of  doubt,  the  impatience  of  suspicion. 
I  watched  the  grace,  the  ardor,  the  glory  of 
devotion.  Through  those  strange  spectacles 
how  often  I  s:iw  the  noblest  heart  renouncing 
all  other  hope,  all  other  ambition,  all  other 
life,  than  the  possible  love  of  some  one  of 
those  stntiv^ 


156  PRUE    ASD   I. 

"  Ah !  me,  it  was  terrible,  but  they  had 
not  the  love  to  give.  The  face  Avas  so 
polished  and  smooth,  because  there  was  no 
sorrow  in  the  heart, — and  drearily,  often,  no 
heart  to  be  touched.  I  could  not  wonder 
that  the  noble  heart  of  devotion  was  brok<  n, 
for  it  had  dashed  itself  against  a  sl<  no.  1 
wept,  until  my  spectacles  were  dimmed,  for 
those  hopeless  lovers  ;  but  there  was  a  j -;:iig 
beyond  tears  for  those  icy  statues. 

"  Still  a  boy,  I  was  thus  too  much  a  n;;;n 
in  knowledge, — I  did  not  comprchrsid  ti.e 
sights  I  was  compelled  to  see.  I  used  to  tear 
my  glasses  away  from  my  eyes,  ard,  fright 
ened  ut  myself,  run  to  escape  my  own  con 
sciousness.  Reaching  the  small  Louse  w'here 
we  then  lived,  I  plunged  into  my  grand 
mother's  room,  and,  throwing  myself  upon 
the  floor,  buried  my  face  in  her  lap  ;  and 
sobbed  myself  to  sleep  with  premature  grief. 

"  But  when  J  awakened,  and  felt  her  cool 
hand  upon  my  hot  forehead,  and  heard  the 
low  sweet  song,  or  the  gentle  story,  or  the 
tenderly  told  payable  from  the  Bible,  with 
which  she  tried  to  soothe  me,  I  could  not  re- 


TITBOTTOM'S   SPECTACLES.  157 

sist  the  mystic  fascination  that  lured  me,  as 
I  lay  in  her  lap,  to  steal  a  glance  at  her 
through  the  spectacles. 

u  Pictures  of  the  Madonna  have  not  her 
rare  and  pensive  beauty.  Upon  the  tran 
quil  little  islands  her  life  had  been  eventless, 
and  all  the  fine  possibilities  of  her  nature 
\vere  like  flowers  that  never  bloomed. 
Placid  were  all  her  years  ;  yet  I  have  rend 
of  no  heroine,  of  no  woman  great  in  sudden 
crises,  that  it  did  not  seem  to  me  she  might 
have  been.  The  wife  and  widow  of  a  man 
who  loved  his  home  better  than  the  homes 
of  others,  I  have  yet  heard  of  no  queen,  no 
belle,  no  imperial  beauty  whom  in  grace,  and 
brilliancy,  and  persuasive  courtesy,  siie  might 
not  have  surpassed. 

''Madam,"  said  Titbottom  to  my  wife, 
whose  heart  hung  upon  his  story,  "your 
husband's  young  friend,  Aurelia,  wears 
sometimes  a  camellia  in  her  hair,  and  no 
diamond  in  the  ball-room  seems  so  costly  as 
that  perfect  flower,  which  women  envy,  and 
for  whose  least  and  withered  petal  men  sigh  ^ 
yet,  in  the  tropical  solitudes  of  Brazil,  how 


158  PRUE   AND    I. 

many  a  camellia  bud  drops  from  the  bush 
that  no  eye  has  ever  seen,  which,  had  it 
flowered  and  been  noticed,  would  have  gilded 
all  hearts  with  its  memory. 

"  When  I  stole  these  furtive  glances  at  my 
grandmother,  half  fearing  that  they  were 
wrong,  J  saw  only  a  calm  lake,  whose  shores 
were  low,  and  over  which  the  sun  hung 
unbroken,  so  that  the  least  star  was  clearly 
reflected.  It  had  an  atmosphere  of  solemn 
twilight  tranquillity,  and  so  completely  did 
its  unruffled  surface  blend  with  the  cloud 
less,  star-studded  sky,  that,  when  I  looked 
through  my  spectacles  at  my  grandmother, 
the  vision  seemed  to  me  all  heaven  and 
stars. 

"  Yet,  as  I  gazed  and  gazed,  I  felt  what 
stately  cities  might  well  have  been  built  upon 
those  shores,  and  have  flashed  prosperity 
over  the  calm,  like  coruscations  of  pearls.  I 
dreamed  of  gorgeous  fleets,  silken-sailed,  ;.mi 
blown  by  perfumed  winds,  drifting  over  those 
depthless  waters  and  through  those  spacious 
skies.  I  gazed  upon  the  twilight,  the  inscru 
table  silence,  like  a  God-fearing  discoverer 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.         159 

upon  a  new  and  vast  sea  bursting  upon  him 
through  forest  glooms,  and  in  the  fervor  of 
whose  impassioned  gaze,  a  millennial  and 
poetic  world  arises,  and  man  need  no  longer 
die  to  be  happy. 

"  My  companions  naturally  deserted  me, 
for  I  had  gro\vn  wearily  grave  and  ab 
stracted  :  and,  unable  to  resist  the  allure 
ments  of  my  spectacles,  I  was  constantly 
lost  in  the  world,  of  which  those  companions 
were  part,  yet  of  which  they  knew  nothing. 

"  I  grew  cold  and  hard,  almost  morose ; 
people  seemed  to  me  so  blind  and  unreason 
able.  They  did  the  wrong  thing.  They 
called  green,  yellow ;  and  black,  white. 
Young  men  said  of  a  girl,  '  "What  a  lovely, 
simple  creature  ! '  I  looked,  and  there  was 
only  a  glistening  wisp  of  straw,  dry  and  hol- 
iow.  Or  they  said,  '  What  a  cold,  proud 
beaut}' ! '  I  looked,  and  lo !  a  Madonna, 
whose  heart  held  the  world.  Or  they  said, 
*  What  a  wild,  giddy  girl ! '  and  I  saw  a 
glancing,  dancing  mountain  stream,  pure  as 
the  virgin  snows  whence  it  flowed,  singing 
through  sun  and  shade,  over  pearls  and  gold 


l6o  PRUE    AND    I. 

dust,  slipping  along  unstained  by  weed  or 
rain,  or  heavy  foot  of  cattle,  touching  the 
flowers  with  a  dewy  kiss, — a  beam  of  grace, 
a  happy  song,  a  line  of  light,  in  the  dim  and 
troubled  landscape. 

"  My  grandmother  sent  me  to  school,  but 
I  looked  at  the  muster,  and  s;i\v  that  he  was 
a  smooth  r.mnd  ferule,  or  an  improper  noun, 
or  a  vulgar  fraction,  and  refused  to  obey 
him.  Or  ho  was  a  piece  of  string,  a  rag,  a 
wiilow-wan .l,and  I  had  a  contemptuous  pity. 
But  one  was  a  well  of  cool,  deep  water,  and 
looking  suddenly  in,  one  day,  I  saw  the 
stars. 

*'  That  one  g  ive  me  all  my  schooling. 
With,  him  I  used  to  walk  by  the  sea,  and,  as 
we  strolled  and  the  waves  plunged  in  long 
legions  before  us,  T  looked  at  him  through  the 
spectacles,  and  as  his  eyes  dilated  with  the 
boundless  view,  and  his  chest  heaved  with 
an  impossible  desire,  I  saw  Xerxes  and  his 
army,  tossed  and  glittering,  rank  upon  rank, 
multitude  upon  multitude,  out  of  sight,  but 
ever  regularly  advancing,  and  with  confuted 
roar  of  ceaseless  music,  prostrating  them- 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.         161 

selves  in  abject  homage.  Or,  as  with  arms 
outstretched  and  hair  streaming  on  the  wind, 
he  chanted  full  lines  of  the  resounding  Iliad, 
I  sa\v  Homer  pacing  the  Egean  sands  of  the 
Greek  sunsets  of  forgotten  times. 

"  My  grandmother  died,  and  I  was  thrown 
into  the  world  without  resources,  and  with 
no  capital  but  my  spectacles.  I  tried  to  find 
•employment,  but  everybody  was  shy  of  me. 
There  was  a  vague  suspicion  that  I  was 
either  a  little  crazed,  or  a  good  deal  in  league 
with  the  prince  of  darkness.  My  compan 
ions,  who  would  persist  in  calling  a  piece  of 
painted  muslin,  a  fair  and  fragrant  flower, 
had  no  difficulty  ;  success  waited  for  them 
around  every  corner,  and  arrived  in  every 
ship. 

"•  I  tried  to  teach,  for  I  loved  children. 
But  if  anything  excited  a  suspicion  of  my 
pupils,  and  putting  on  my  spectacles,  I  saw 
that  1  was  fondling  a  snake,  or  smelling  at 
a  bud  with  a  worm  i;i  it,  1  sprang  up  in  hor 
ror  and  rin  away;  or,  if  it  seemed  .to  me 
thro  ig'i  the  glasses,  that  a  cherub  smiled 

upo  \    i)i«,   or  a  roso  was  blooming   in  my 
i 


162  PRUE   AND   I. 

buttonhole,  then  I  felt  myself  imperfect  and 
impure,  not  lit  to  be  leading  and  training 
what  was  so  essentially  superior  to  myself, 
and  I  kissed  the  children  and  left  them 
weeping  and  wondering. 

"  In  despair  I  went  to  a  great  merchant 
on  the  island,  and  asked  him  to  employ  me. 

" '  My  dear  young  friend,'  said  he, '  I  un 
derstand  that  you  have  some  singular  secret, 
some  charm,  or  spell,  or  amulet,  or  some 
thing,  I  don't  kno\v  what,  of  which  people 
are  afraid.  Now  you  know,  my  dear,'  said 
the  merchant,  swelling  up,  and  apparently 
prouder  of  his  great  stomach  than  of  his 
large  fortune,  'I  am  not  of  that  kind.  I  am 
not  easily  frightened.  You  may  spare 
yourself  the  pain  of  trying  to  impose  upon 
me.  People  who  propose  to  come  to  time 
before  I  arrive,  are  accustomed  to  arise  very 
6arly  in  the  morning,'  said  he,  thrusting  his 
thumbs  in  the  armholesof  his  waistcoat,  and 
spreading  the  fingers  like  two  fans,  upon  his 
bosom.  '  I  think  I  have  heard  something  of 
your  secret.  You  have  a  pair  of  spectacles, 
I  believe,  that  you  valn~  very  much,  because 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.         163 

your  grandmother  brought  them  as  a  mar 
riage  portion  to  your  grandfather.  Now,  if 
you  think  fit  to  sell  me  those  spectacles;  I 
will  pay  you  the  largest  market  price  for 
them.  What  do  you  say  ? ' 

"I  told  him  I  had  not  the  slightest  idea  of 
selling  my  spectacles. 

"  '  My  young  friend  means  to  eat  them, 
I  suppose,'  said  he,  with  a  contemptuous 
smile. 

"  I  made  no  reply,  but  was  turning  to- 
leave  the  office,  when  the  merchant  called 
after  me — 

" '  My  young  friend,  poor  people  should 
never  suffer  themselves  to  get  into  pets. 
Anger  is  an  expansive  luxury,  in  which  only 
men  of  a  certain  income  can  indulge.  A. 
pair  of  spectacles  and  a  hot  temper  are  r.ot 
the  most  promising  capital  for  success  in 
life,  Master  Titbottom.' 

"  I  said  nothing,  but  put  my  hand  upon 
the  door  to  go  out,  when  the  merchant  said, 
more  respectfully — 

"  'Well,  you  foolish  boy,  if  you  will  not' 
sell  your  spectacles,  perhaps  you  will  agree 


164  PRUE   AND   I. 

to  sell  the  use  of  them  to  me.  That  is,  you 
shall  only  put  them  on  when  I  direct  you, 
and  for  my  purposes.  Hullo  !  you  little  fool ! ' 
cried  he,  impatiently,  as  he  saw  that  I  in 
tended  to  make  no  reply. 

"  But  I  had  pulled  out  my  spectacles  and 
put  them  on  for  mv  own  purposes,  and 
agiinst  his  wish  and  desire.  I  looked  at  him, 
and  saw  a  huge,  bald-headed  wild  boar,  with 
gross  chaps  and  a  leering  eye — only  the 
more  ridiculous  for  the  high-arched,  gold- 
bowed  spectacles,  that  straddled  his  nose. 
O.io  of  his  fore-hoofs  was  thrust  into  the 
safe,  where  his  bills  receivable  were  hived, 
and  the  other  into  his  pocket,  among  the 
loose  change  and  bills  there.  His  ears  were 
pricked  forward  with  a  brisk,  sensitive  smart 
ness.  In  a  word  where  prize  pork  was  the 
best  excellence,  he  would  have  carried  off  all 
the  premiums. 

"  T  stenped  into  the  next  office  in  the  street, 
and  a  mild-faced,  genial  man,  also  a  large  and 
opulent  merchant,  asked  me  my  business  in 
s-^'i  :\  ton",  th-'t  T  instantly  looked  through 
ir.v  9'v-i''*.;icVvv  rind  snw  a  land  flowing  with 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.         165 

milk  and  honey.  There  I  pitched  my  tent, 
and  stayed  till  the  good  man  died,  and  his 
business  was  discontinued. 

"  But  while  there,''  said  Titbottom,  and 
his  voice  trembled  away  into  a  sigh,  k'  I  first 
saw  Pivcios  i  Despite  the  spectacles,  I  saw 
Predosa.  For  days,  for  weeks,  for  months, 
I  dU  not  take  my  spectacles  with  me.  T  ran. 
awav  from  them,  I  threw  them  up  on  high 
shelves,  I  tried  to  make  up  my  mind  to  throw 
them  into  the  sea,  or  down  the  well.  I  could 
not,  I  would  not,  I  dared  not,  look  at  Pre- 
ciosa  through  the  spectacles.  It  was  not  pos 
sible  for  me  deliberately  to  destroy  them  ;  but 
I  awoke  in  the  night,  and  could  almost  have 
cursed  my  dear  old  grandfather  for  his  gift. 

';  I  sometimes  escaped  from  the  office, and 
sat  for  whole  days  with  Preciosa.  I  told 
her  the  strange  things  I  had  seen  with  my 
mystic  glasses.  The  hours  were  not  enough 
for  the  wild  romances  which  I  raved  in  her 
ear.  She  listene:!,  astonished  and  appalled. 
Her  blue  eyes  turned  upon  me  with  sweet 
deprecation.  She  clung  to  me,  and  then 
withdrew,  and  fie;l  fearfully  from  the  room- 


1 66  PRUE   AND    I. 

"  But  she  could  not  stay  away.  She  could 
not  resist  ray  voice,  in  whose  tones  burnt  all 
the  love  that  filled  my  heart  and  brain.  The 
very  effort  to  resist  the  desire  of  seeing  her 
as  I  saw  everybody  else,  gave  a  frenzy  and 
an  unnatural  tension  to  my  feeling  and  my 
manner.  I  sat  by  her  side,  looking  into  her 
eyes,  smoothing  her  hair,  folding  her  to  my 
heart,  which  was  sunken  deep  and  deep — 
why  not  forever?  — in  that  dream  of  peace. 
I  ran  from  her  presence,  and  shouted,  and 
leaped  with  joy,  and  sat  the  whole  night 
through  thrilled  into  happiness  by  the 
thought  of  her  love  and  loveliness,  like  a 
wind  harp,  tightly  strung,  and  answering  the 
airiest  sigh  of  the  breeze  with  music. 

"  Then  came  calmer  days — the  conviction 
of  deep  love  settled  upon  our  lives — as  after 
the  hurrying,  heaving  days  of  spring,  comes 
the  bland  and  benignant  summer. 

u  '  It  is  no  dream,  then,  after  all,  and  we 
are  happy,'  I  s:iid  to  her,  one  day  ;  and  there 
came  no  answer,  for  happiness  is  speechless. 

"  '  We  are  happy,  thon,'  I  said  to  myself, 
*  there  is  no  excite  :i  >:ir  no  v.  I  low  jrlad  I 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.         167 

am  that  I  can  now  look-  at  her  through  my 
spectacles.' 

"  I  feared  lest  some  instinct  should  warn 
me  to  beware.  I  escaped  from  her  arms,  and 
ran  home  and  seiz3:l  t'.ie  glasses,  and  bound 
ed  back  again  to  Prociosa.  As  I  entered  the 
room  I  was  heat3;l,  my  head  was  swimming 
with  confused  apprehensions,  my  eyes  must 
have  glared.  Preciosa  was  frightened,  and 
rising  from  her  sent,  stood  with  an  inquiring 
glance  of  surprise  i:i  Ii3r  eyas. 

"  But  I  was  b3nt  with  frenzy  upon  my 
purpose.  I  was  merely  aware  that  she  was 
in  the  room.  I  saw  nothing  else.  I  heard 
nothing.  I  cared  for  nothing,  but  to  see  her 
through  that  magic  glass,  and  feel  at  once 
all  the  fulness  of  blissful  perfection  which 
that  would  reveal.  Preciosa  stood  before 
the  mirror,  but  alarmed  at  my  wild  and  eager 
movements,  unible  to  distinguish  what  I 
had  in  my  hands,  and  seeing  me  raise  them 
suddenly  to  my  face,  she  shrieked  with  ter 
ror,  and  fell  fainting  upon  the  floor,  at  the 
very  moment  that  I  placed  the  glasses  before 
my  eyes,  and  beheld — 'myself,  reflected  in 


l68  PRUE   AND    I. 

the  mirror,  before  which  she  had  been  stand 
ing. 

"Dear  madam,"  cried  Titbottom,  to  my 
•wife,  springing  up  and  falling  back  again  in 
his  chair,  pale  and  trembling,  while  Prue 
ran  to  him  and  took  his  hand,  and  I  poured 
out  a  glass  of  water — "  I  saw  myself." 

There  was  silence  for  many  minutes.  Prue 
laid  her  hand  gently  upon  the  head  of  our 
guest,  whose  eyes  were  closed,  and  who 
breathed  softly  like  an  infant  in  sleeping. 
Perhaps,  in  all  the  long  years  of  anguish 
since  that  hour,  no  tender  hand  had  touched 
his  brow,  nor  wiped  away  the  damps  of  a 
bitter  sorrow.  Perhaps  the  tender,  maternal 
fingers  of  my  wife  smoothed  his  .weary  head 
with  the  conviction  that  he  felt  the  hand  of 
his  mother  playing  with  the  long  hair  of  her 
boy  in  the  soft  "West  India  morning.  Per 
haps  it  was  only  the  natural  relief  of  express 
ing  a  pent-up  sorrow. 

"When  he  spoke  again,  it  was  with  the  old 
subdued  tone,  and  thenirof  quaint  solemnity. 

"  These  things  were  m jitters  of  lono-,  long 

-  ty*  *** 

ago.  and  I  came  to  this  country  soon  after.     I 


TITBOTTOM'S   SPECTACLES.  169 

brought  with  me,  premature  age,  a  past  of 
melancholy  memories,  and  the  magic  spoc- 
tacles.  I  had  become  their  slave.  I  had 
nothing  more  to  fear.  Having  seen  myself,  I 
was  compelled  to  see  others,  properly  to  un 
derstand  my  relations  to  them.  The  lig'.il.; 
that  cheer  the  future  of  other  men  had  gon^ 
out  for  me,  my  eyes  were  those  of  an  exi!o 
turned  backwards  upon  the  receding  shore, 
and  not  forwards  with  hope  upon  the  ocean. 
"  I  mingled  with  men,  but  with  little 
pleasure.  There  are  but  many  varieties 
of  a  few  types.  I  did  not  find  those  I  came- 
to  clearer-sighted  than  those  I  had  left  be 
hind.  I  heard  men  called  shrewd  and  wise, 
and  report  said  they  were  highly  intelligent 
and  successful.  My  finest  sense  detected  no 
aroma  of  purity  and  principle ;  but  I  saw 
only  a  fungus  that  had  fattened  and  spread 
in  a  night.  They  went  to  the  theaters  to 
see  actors  upon  the  stage.  I  went  to  see 
actors  in  the  boxes  so  consummately  cun 
ning  that  others  did  not  know  they  were 
acting,  and  Jiey  did  not  suspect  it  them 
selves. 


I/O  PRUE   AND   I. 

"  Perhaps  you  wonder  it  did  not  make  me 
misanthropical.  My  dear'  friends,  do  not 
forget  that  I  had  seen  myself.  That  made 
me  compassionate  not  cynical. 

"  Of  course,  I  could  not  value  highly  the 
ordinary  standards  of  success  and  excellence. 
When  I  went  to  church  and  saw  a  thin,  blue, 
artificial  flower,  or  a  great  sleepy  cushion 
expounding  the  beauty  of  holiness  to  pews 
full  of  eagles,  half-eagles,  and  three-pences, 
however  adroitly  concealed  they  might  be 
in  broadcloth  and  boots:  or  saw  an  onion  in 
an  Easter  bonnet  weeping  over  the  sins  of 
Magdalen,  I  did  not  feel  as  they  felt  who 
saw  in  all  this,  not  only  propriety  but  piety. 

"  Or  when  at  public  meetings  an  eel  stood 
up  on  end,  and  wriggled  and  squirmed 
lithely  in  every  direction,  and  declared  that, 
for  liis  part,  he  went  in  for  rainbows  and 
hot  water — how  could  I  help  seeing  that  he 
w;u  still  black  and  loved  a  slimy  pool  ? 

"  I  could  not  grow  misanthropical  when  I 
sa\v  in  the  eyes  of  so  many  who  were  called 
old,  the  gus'iing  fountains  of  eternal  youth, 
and  the  light  of  nn  immortal  dawn,  or  when 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.         171 

I  saw  those  who  were  esteemed  unsuccessful 
and  aimless,  ruling  a  fair  realm  of  peace  and 
plenty,  either  in  their  own  hearts,  or  in 
another's — a  realm  and  princely  possession 
for  which  they  had  well  renounced  a  hopeless 
search  and  a  belated  triumph. 

"  I  knew  one  man  who  had  been  for  years 
a  "by  word  for  having  sought  the  philosophers 
stone.  But  I  looked  at  him  through  the 
spectacles  and  saw  a  satisfaction  in  concen 
trated  energies,  and  a  tenacity  arising  fro  in 
devotion  to  a  noble  dream  which  was  not 
apparent  in  the  youths  who  pitied  him  in  the 
aimless  effeminacy  of  clubs,  nor  in  the  clever 
gentlemen  who  cracked  their  thin  jokes  upon 
Mm  over  a  gossiping  dinner. 

"  And  there  was  your  neighbor  over  the 
way,  who  passes  for  a  woman  who  has  failed 
in  her  career,  because  she  u  an  old  la.iid. 
People  wag  solemn  heads  of  pity,  and  say 
that  she  made  so  great  a  mistake  in  not  mar 
rying  the  brilliant  and  famous  man  who  was 
for  long  years  her  suitor.  It  is  clear  that  no 
orange  flower  will  ever  bloom  for  her.  The 
young  people  mako  the!;-  tender  romances 


PRUE   AND   I. 

about  her  as  they  watch  her,  and  think 
of  her  solitary  hours  of  bitter  regret  and 
wasting  longing,  never  to  be  satisfied. 

"  When  I  first  came  to  town  I  shared  this 
sympathy,  and  pleased  my  imagination  with 
fancying  her  hard  struggle  Avith  the  convic 
tion  that  she  had  lost  all  that  made  life 
baautiful.  I  supposed  that  if  I  had  looked 
at  her  through  my  spectacles,  I  should  see 
that  it  was  only  her  radiant  temper  which 
so  illuminated  her  dress,  that  we  did  not  see 
it  to  be  heavy  sables. 

"  But  when,  one  day,  I  did  raise  my  glasses, 
and  glanced  at  her,  I  did  not  see  the  old 
maid  whom  we  all  pitied  for  a  secret  sorrow, 
but  a  woman  whose  nature  was  a  tropic,  in 
which  the  sun  shone,  and  birds  sang,  and 
flowers  bloomed  forever.  There  wero  no  re 
grets,  no  doubts  and  half  wishes,  but  a  calm 
sweetness,  a  transparent  peace.  I  saw  her 
bias  j  when  that  old  lover  passed  by,  or  paused 
to  speak  to  her,  but  it  was  only  the  sign  of 
delicate  feminine  consciousness.  She  knev,- 
h:-;  lov1,  arr.l  hono-^  I  h,  although  she  could 
not  understand  it  r.or  return  it.  i  looked 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.         173 
closelv  at  her,  and  I  saw  that  although  all 

*/ 

the  world  had  exclaimed  at  her  indifference 
to  such  homqge,  and  had  declared  it  was 
astonishing  she  should  lose  so  fine  a  match, 
she  would  only  say  simply  and  quietly— 

'; '  If  Shakespeare  loved  me  and  I  did  not 
love  him,  ho\v  could  I  marry  him?' 

"  Could  I  be  misanthropical  when  I  saw 
such  fidelity,  and  dignity,  and  simplicity? 

"  You  may  believe  that  1  was  especially 
curious  to  look  at  that  old  lover  of  hers 
through  my  glasses.  He  was  no  longer 
young,  you  know,  when  I  came,  and  his 
famo  and  fortune  were  secure.  Certainly  1 
have  heard  of  few  men  more  beloved,  and 
of  none  more  worthy  to  be  loved.  He  had 
the  easy  manner  of  a  man  of  the  world,  the 
sensitive  grace  of  a  poet,  and  the  charitable 
judgment  of  a  wide-traveler.  He  was  ac 
counted  the  most  successful  and  most  un 
spoiled  of  men.  Handsome,  brilliant,  wise, 
tender,  graceful,  accomplished,  rich  and 
famous,  I  looked  at  him,  without  the  spec 
tacles,  in  surprise,  and  admiration,  and  won 
dered  how  your  neighbor  over  the  way  had 


PRUE   AND   I. 

been  so  entirely  untouched  by  his  homage.  I 
watched  their  intercourse  in  society,  I  saw 
her  gay  smile,  her  cordial  greeting  ;  I  marked 
his  frank  address,  his  lofty  courtesy.  Their 
manner  told  no  tales.  The  eager  world  \vas 
balked,  and  I  pulled  out  my  spectacles. 

"  I  had  seen  her  already,  and  now  1  saw 
him.  He  lived  only  in  memory,  and  his 
memory  was  a  spacious  and  stately  palace. 
But  he  did  not  oftenest  frequent  the  ban- 
•  quoting  hall,  where  were  endless  hospitality 
and  feasting, — nor  did  he  loiter  much  in  I  he 
reception  rooms,  where  a  throng  of  new 
visitors  was  forever  swarming,— nor  did  he 
feed  his  vanity  by  haunting  the  apartment 
in  which  were  stored  the  trophies  of  his 
varied  triumphs, — nor  dream  much  in  the 
great  gallery  hung  with  pictures  of  his 
travels. 

"  From  all  these  lofty  halls  of  memory  ho 
constantly  escaped  to  a  remote  and  solitary 
chamber,  into  which  no  one  had  ever  pene 
trated.  But  my  fatal  eyes,  behind  the 
glasses,  followed  and  entered  with  him,  and 
saw  that  the  chamber  was  a  chapel.  It  was 


TITBOTTOM'S  SPECTACLES.         175 

lim,  and  silent,  and  sweet  with  perpetual 
incense  that  burned  upon  an  altar  before  a 
picture  forever  veiled.  There,  whenever  I 
chanced  to  look,  I  saw  him  kneel  and  pray  ; 
and  there,  by  day  and  by  night,  a  funeral 
hynm  was  chanted. 

"  I  do  not  believe  you  will  be  surprised 
t!i:it  I  have  been  content  to  remain  a  deputy 
bookkeeper.  My  spectacles  regulated  my 
ambition,  and  I  early  learned  that  there  were 
b'-tter  gods  than  Plutus.  The  glasses  ha\Te 
lost  much  of  their  fascination  now,  and  I  do 
not  o  i'ten  use  them .  But  sometimes  the  desire 
is  irresistible.  Whenever  I  am  greatly  in 
terested,  I  am  compelled  to  take  them  out 
and  see  what  it  is  that  I  admire. 

"  And  yet — and  yet,"  said  Titbottom, 
after  a  pause,  ''  I  am  not  sure  that  I  thank 
my  grandfather." 

True  had  long  since  laid  away  her  work, 
and  had  heard  every  word  of  the  story.  I 
saw  that  the  dear  woman  had  yet  one  ques 
tion  to  ask,  Rnd  had  been  earnestly  hoping 
to  hear  something  that  would  spare  her  the 
necessity  of  asking.  But  Titbottom  had 


176  PRUE   AND   I. 

resumed  his  usual  tone,  after  the  momentary 
excitement,  and  made  no  further  allusion  to 
himself.  We  all  sat  silently ;  Titbottom's 
eyes  fastened  musingly  upon  the  carpet, 
Prue  looking  wistfully  at  him,  and  I  regard 
ing  both. 

It  was  past  midnight,  and  our  guest  arose 
to  go.  He  shook  hands  quietly,  made  his 
grave  Spanish  bow  to  Prue,  and,  taking  his 
hat,  went  toward  the  front  door.  Prue  and 
I  accompanied  him.  I  saw  in  her  eyes  that 
she  would  ask  her  question.  And  as  Tit- 
bottom  opened  the  door,  I  heard  the  low 
words : 

"And  Preciosa?" 

Titbottom  paused.  He  had  just  opened 
the  door,  and  the  moonlight  streamed  over 
him  as  he  stood  turning  back  to  us. 

"  I  have  seen  her  but  once  since.  It  was 
in  church,  and  she  was  kneeling,  with  her 
eyes  closed,  so  that  she  did  not  see  me. 
But  I  rubbed  the  glasses  well,  and  looked  at 
her,  and  saw  a  white  lilv.  \vhos^  stern  was 
broken,  but  which  was  fresh,  and  luminous, 
arjl  frajzrant  still." 


TTTBOTTOMS   SPECTACLES. 

"  That  was  a  miracle,"  interrupted  Prue. 

"  Madam,  it  was  a  miracle,"  replied  Tit- 
bottom,  "  and  for  that  one  sight  I  am  de 
voutly  grateful  for  my  grandfather's  gift.  I 
saw,  that  although  a  flower  may  have  lost  its 
hold  upon  earthly  moisture,  it  may  still  bloom 
as  sweetly,  fed  by  the  dews  of  heaven." 

The  door  closed,  and  he  was  gone.  But 
a;  Prm  p'lt  h«r  arm  in  mine,  and  we  went 
up-stairs  together,  she  whispered  in  my  ear : 

•'How  glad  I  am  that  you  don't  wear 
spectacles." 

12 


A  CRUISE  IN  THE  FJ  YING  DUTCHMAN, 


"  When  I  sailed  :  when  I  sailed." 

Ballad  of  Robert  Kidd 


A  CRUISE  IN  THE  FLYING  DUTCH 
MAN, 

"  When  I  sailed  :  when  I  sailed." 

Ballad  of  Robert  Kldd. 

WITH  the  opening  of  spring  my  heart 
opens.  My  fancy  expands  with  the  flowers, 
and,  as  I  walk  down  town  in  the  May  morn 
ing,  toward  the  dingy  counting-room,  and 
the  old  routine,  you  would  hardly  believe 
that  I  would  not  -change  my  feelings  for 
those  of  the  French  Barber-Poet  Jasmin., 
who  goes,  merrily  singing,  to  his  shaving 
and  hair-cutting. 

The  lirst  warm  day  puts  the  wThole  winter 
to  flight.  It  stands  in  front  of  the  summer 
like  a  young  warrior  before  his  host,  and, 
single-handed,  defies  and  destroys  its  re 
morseless  enemy. 

I  throw  up  the  chamber-window,  to 
breathe  the  earliest  breath  <>f  summer. 

"The    brave    vo-ing    Divid    lias    hit   old 

181 


1 82  PRUE   AND    I. 

•Goliah  square  in  the  forehead  this  morning," 
I  say  to  Prue,  as  I  lean  out,  and  bathe  in 
the  soft  sunshine. 

My  wife  is  tying  on  her  cap  at  the  glass, 
and,  not  quite  disentangled  from  her  dreams, 
thinks  1  am  speaking  of  a  street  brawl,  and 
replies  that  I  had  better  take  care  of  my 
•own-  head. 

<:  Since  you  have  charge  of  my  heart,  I 
«uppo.>e,"  I  answer  gaily,  turning  round  to 
make  her  one  of  Titbottom's  bows. 

"  But  seriously,  Prue,  how  is  it  about  my 
•sum m  jr  wardrobe  ?  " 

Prue  smiles,  and  tells  me  we  shall  have 
two  months  of  winter  yet,  and  I  had  better 
stop  and  order  some  more  coal  as  I  go  down 
town. 

"  Winter— coal !  " 

Tiien  I  step  back,  and,  taking  her  by  the 
-arm,  lead  her  to  the  window.  I  throw  it 
open  even  wider  than  before.  The  sunlight 
•streams  on  the  great  church-towers  opposite, 
and  the  trr^j  i»i  tho  neighboring  square 
glisten,  rrvl  wn<*<»  t'u^r  bon-hs  gently,  as  if 
they  v.oui.l  Imist  inio  leaf  heforo  dinner. 


CRUISE   IN   THE   FLYING   DUTCHMAN.      183. 

Cages  are  hung  at  the  open  chamber- win 
dows  in  the  street,  and  the  birds,  touched 
into  song  by  the  sun,  make  jVIemnon  true^ 
Prue's  purple  and  white  hyacinths  are  in 
full  blossom,  and  perfume  the  warm  air,  so 
that  the  canaries  and  the  mocking  birds  are 
no  longer  aliens  in  the  city  streets,  but  are 
once  more  swinging  in  their  spicy  native 
groves. 

A  soft  wind  blows  upon  us  as  we  stand, 
listening  and  looking.  Cuba  and  the  Trop 
ics  are  in  the  air.  The  drowsy  tune  of  a. 
hand-organ  rises  from  the  square,  and  Italy 
comes  singing  in  upon  the  sound.  My 
triumphant  eyes  meet  Prue's.  They  are  full 
of  sweetness  and  spring. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  the  summer-ward 
robe  now  ? "  I  ask,  and  we  go  down  to 
breakfast. 

But  the  air  has  magic  in  it,  and  I  do  not 
cease  to  dream,  if  I  meet  Charles,  who.  is. 
bound  for  Alabama,  or  John,  who  sails  for 
G:vvannah,  with  a  trunk  full  of  white  jackets, 
1  C.o  not  say  to  them,  as  their  other  friends, 
say,— 


1 84  PRUE   AND   I. 

"  Happy  travelers,  who  cut  March  and 
April  out  of  the  dismal  year !  " 

I  do  not  envy  them.  They  will  be  sea 
sick  on  tlie  way.  The  southern  winds  will 
blow  all  the  water  out  of  the  rivers,  and, 
desolately  stranded  upon  mud,  they  will  re 
lieve  the  tedium  of  the  interval  by  tying 
with  large  ropes  a  young  gentleman  raving 
with  delirium  tremens.  They  will  hurry 
along,  appalled  by  forests  blazing  in  the 
windy  night  ;  and,  housed  in  a  bad  inn, 
they  will  find  themselves  anxiously  asking, 
"  Are  the  cars  punctual  in  leaving  '>  "• 
grimly  sure  that  impatient  travelers  find 
nil  conveyances  too  slow.  The  travelers 
are  very  warm,  indeed,  even  in  March  and 
April, — but  Prue  doubts  if  it  is  altogether 
the  effect  of  the  southern  climate. 

Why  should  they  go  to  the  South  ?  If 
they  only  wait  a  little,  the  South  will  come 
to  them.  Savannah  arrives  in  April  ; 
Florida  in  May  ;  Cuba  and  the  Gulf  come 
in  with  June,  and  the  full  splendor  of  the 
Tropics  burns  through  July  nnd  August. 
Sitting  upon  the  earth,  do  we  not  glide  by 


CRUISE   IN   THE   FLYING   DUTCHMAN.       185 

all  the  constellations,  all  the  awful  stars? 
Does  not  the  flash  of  Orion's  scimeter  dazzle- 
as  we  pass?  Do  AVC  not  hear,  as  we  gaze- 
in  hushed  midnights,  the  music  of  the  Lyre; 
are  we  not  throned  with  Cassiopea  ;  do  w& 
not  play  with  the  tangles  of  Berenice's  hair,. 
as  we  sail,  as  we  sail? 

When  Christopher  told  me  that  he  was 
going  to  Italy,  I  went  into  Bourne's  conserv 
atory,  saw  a  magnolia,  and  so  reached  Italy 
before  him.  Can  Christopher  bring  Italy 
home  ?  But  I  brought  to  Prue  a  branch 
of  magnolia  blossoms,  with  I»Ir.  Bourne's 
kindest  regards,  and  she  put  them  upon  her 
table,  and  our  little  house  smelled  of  Italy 
for  a  week  afterward.  The  incident  devel 
oped  Prue's  Italian  tastes,  which  I  had  not 
suspected  to  be  so  strong.  I  found  her  look 
ing  very  often  at  the  magnolias  ;  even  hold 
ing  them  in  her  hand,  and  standing  before  the- 
table  with  a  pensive  air.  I  suppose  she  was. 
thinking  of  Beatrice  Cenci,  or  of  Tasso  and* 
Leonora,  or  of  the  wife  o.f  Marino  Faliero,. 
or  of  some  other  of  those  sad  old  Italian  tales 
of  love  and  wo.  So  easily  Prue  went  to  Italy  T 


186  TRUE   AND    I. 

Thus  the  spring  comes  in  my  heart  as  well 
as  in  the  air,  and  leaps  along  my  veins  as 
well  as  through  the  trees.  I  immediately 
travel.  An  orange  takes  me  to  Sorrento, 
and  roses,  when  they  blo\v,  to  Pa?stum. 
The  camellias  in  Aurelia's  hair  bring  Brazil 
into  the  happy  rooms  she  treads,  and  she 
takes  me  to  South  America  as  she  goes  to 
dinner.  The  pearls  upon  her  neck  make  me 
free  of  the  Persian  gulf.  Upon  her  shawl, 
like  the  Arabian  prince  upon  his  carpet,  I 
am  transported  to  the  vales  of  Cashmere  ; 
and  thus,  as  I  daily  walk  in  the  bright  spring 
•days,  I  go  round  the  -world. 

But  the  season  wakes  a  finer  longing,  a 
•desire  that  could  only  be  satisfied  if  the  pa 
vilions  of  the  clouds  were  real,  and  I  could 
stroll  amonir  the  towering  splendors  of  a 
sultry  spring  evening.  Ah  !  if  I  could  leap 
those  flaming  battlements  that  glo\v  along 
the  west— if  I  could  tread  those  cool,  dewy, 
•serene  isles  of  sunset,  and  sink  with  them  in 
the  sea  of  st;;rs. 

I  »ay  so  to  Pruo,  and  my  wife  smiles. 

"  But    why  is   it   so   impossible,"    I   ask, 


CRUISE    IN   THE    I- LYING   DUTCHMAN.       l8/ 

"if  you  go  to  Italy  upon  a  magnolia 
branch?" 

The  smile  fades  from  her  eyes. 

"  I  went  a  shorter  voyage  than  that,"  she 
answered ;  "  it  was  only  to  Mr.  Bourne's." 

I  walked  slowly  out  of  the  house,  and 
overtook  Titbottom  as  I  went.  He  smiled 
gravely  as  he  greeted  me,  and  said  : 

"  I  have  been  asked  to  invite  you  to  join 
a  little  pleasure  party." 

"  Where  is  it  going  ? " 

"Oh!  anywhere,"  answered  Titbottom. 

"  And  how  ? " 

"  Oh !  anyhow,"  he  replied. 

"  You  mean  that  everybody  is  to  go  wher 
ever  he  pleases,  and  in  the  way  he  best  can. 
My  dear  Titbottom,  I  have  long  belonged 
to  that  pleasure  party,  although  I  never 
heard  it  called  by  so  pleasant  a  name  be 
fore." 

My  companion  said  only  : 

"  If  you  would  like  to  join,  I  will  introduce 
you  to  the  party.  I  cannot  go,  but  they 
are  all  on  board.:' 

I  an.swerod  nothing;  but  Titbottom  drew 


PRUt:   AND    I. 

me  along.  We  took  a  boat,  and  put  off  to 
the  most  extraordinary  craft  I  had  ever  seen. 
"We  approached  her  stern,  and,  as  I  curiously 
looked  at  it,  I  could  think  of  nothing  but  an. 
old  picture  that  hung  in  my  father's  house. 
It  was  of  the  Flemish  school,  and  represented 
the  rear  view  of  the  vrouw  of  a  burgomaster 
going  to  market.  The  Avide  yards  were 
stretched  like  elbows,  and  even  the  studding- 
sails  were  spread.  The  hull  was  seared  and 
blistered,  and,  in  the  tops,  I  saw  what  I  sup 
posed  to  be  strings  of  turnips  or  cabbages, 
little  round  masses,  with  tufted  crests;  but 
Titbottom  assured  me  they  were  sailors. 

We  rowed  hard,  but  came  no  nearer  the 
vessel. 

"  She  is  going  with  the  tide  and  wind," 
said  I :  "  we  shall  never  catch  her." 

My  companion  said  nothing. 

"  But  why  have  they  set  the  studding- 
sails  ? "  asked  I. 

"  She  never  takes  in  any  sails,"  answered 
Titbottom. 

"  The  more  fool  she,"  thought  I,  a  little 
impatiently,  angry  at  not  getting  nearer  to 


CRUISE    IN   THE   FLYING   DUTCHMAN.      189 

the  vessel.  But  I  did  not  say  it  aloud.  I 
would  as  soon  have  said  it  to  Prue  as  to  Tit- 
bottom.  The  truth  is,  I  began  to  feel  a  little 
ill,  from  the  motion  of  the  boat,  and  remem 
bered,  with  a  shade  of  regret,  Prue  and  pep 
permint.  If  wives  could  only  keep  their 
husbands  a  little  nauseated,  I  am  confident 
they  might  be  very  sure  of  their  constancy. 

B.it,  somehow,  the  strange  ship  was  gained, 
an:l  I  found  myself  among  as  singular  a 
company  us  I  have  ever  seen.  There  were 
men  of  every  country,  and  costumes  of  all 
lands.  There  was  an  indescribable  misti 
ness  in  the  air,  or  a  premature  twilight,  in 
which  all  the  figures  looked  ghostly  and  un 
real.  The  ship  was  of  a  model  such  as  I  had 
never  seen,  and  the  rigging  had  a  musty 
odor,  so  that  the  whole  craft  smelled  like 
a  ship-chandler's  shop  grown  moldy.  The 
figures  glided  rather  than  walked  about, 
and  I  perceived  a  strong  smell  of  cabbage 
issuing  from  tlie  hold. 

But  the  most  extraordinary  thing  of  all 
Avas  the  sens0  of  resistless  motion  which  pos 
sess-  >•!  inv  m"1  '  tlr>  niom-Mit  KIV  foot  struck 


PRUE   AND   I. 

the  deck.  I  could  have  sworn  we  wore 
dashing  through  the  water  at  the  rate  of 
twenty  knots  an  hour.  (Prue  has  a  great, 
but  a  little  ignorant,  admiration  of  my  tech 
nical  knowledge  of  nautical  affairs  and 
phrases.)  I  looked  aloft  and  saw  the  sails 
taut  with  a  stiff  breeze,  and  I  heard  a  faint 
whistling  of  the  wind  in  the  rigging,  but 
very  faint,  and  rather,  it  seemed  to  me,  as  if 
it  came  from  the  creak  of  cordage  in  the 
ships  of  Crusaders ;  or  of  quaint  old  craft  upon 
the  Spanish  main,  echoing  through  remote 
years — so  far  away  it  sounded. 

Yet  I  heard  no  orders  given  ;  I  saw  no 
sailors  running  aloft,  and  only  one  figure 
crouching  over  the  wheel,  lie  was  lost  I >e- 
hind  his  great  beard  as  behind  a  snowdrift. 
But  the  startling  speed  with  which  v, c  scud 
ded  along  did  not  lift  a  solitary  hair  of  that 
beard,  nor  did  the  old  and  withered  fr.co  of 
the  pilot  betray  any  curiosity  or  interest  as 
to  what  breakers,  or  reefs,  or  pitiless  shores, 
might  be  lyino:  in  ambush  to  destroy  us. 

Still  on  we  r,  "r>nt ;  nnd  ns  th^  tnvelor  m 
a  niht-tram  knows  that  !:  >  is  v.ssin^  -Teen 


CRUISE   IN   THE   FLYING   DUTCHMAN.       19! 

fields,  and  pleasant  gardens,  and  winding 
streams  fringed  with  flowers,  and  is  now 
gliding  through  tunnels  or  darting  along  the 
base  of  fearful  cliffs,  so  I  was  conscious  that 
we  were  pressing  through  various  climates 
and  by  romantic  shores.  In  vain  I  peered 
into  the  <miv  twilight  mist  that  folded  all. 

CD  */ 

I  could  only  see  the  vague  figures  that  grew 
iind  faded  upon  the  haze,  as  my  eye  fell  upon 
them,  like  the  intermittent  characters  of 
sympathetic  ink  when  heat  touches  them. 

Now,  it  was  a  belt  of  warm,  odorous  air 
in  which  we  sailed,  and  then  cold  as  the 
breath  of  a  polar  ocean.  The  perfume  of 
new-mown  hay  and  the  breath  of  roses,  came 
mingled  with  the  distant  music  of  bells,  and 
the  twittering  song  of  birds,  and  a  low  surf- 
lik:1  sound  of  the  wind  in  summer  woods. 
There  were  all  sounds  of  pastoral  beauty,  of 
a  tranquil  landscape  such  as  Prue  loves — 
and  which  shall  be  painted  as  the  background 
of  her  portrait  whenever  she  sits  to  any  of 
my  many  artist  friends — and  that  pastoral 
beauty  sha'.l  !>•'  called  r.n  yland  ;  I  strained 
X3  ees  into  tho  cruel  mist  luat  held  all  that 


192  T;;UE  AND  i. 

music  and  all  that  suggested  beauty,  but  I 
could  see  nothing.  It  was  so  sweet  that  I 
scarcely  knew  it'  I  cared  to  see.  The  very 
thought  of  it  charmed  my  senses  and  satis- 
tied  my  heart.  I  smelled  and  heard  the  land 
scape  that  I  could  not  see. 

Then  the  pungent,  penetrating  fragrance 
of  blossoming  vineyards  was  Avafted  across 
the  air;  the  flowery  richness  of  orange 
groves,  and  the  sacred  odor  of  crushed  bay 
leaves,  such  as  is  pressed  from  them  Avhens 
they  are  streAvn  upon  the  flat  pavement  of 
the  streets  of  Florence,  and  gorgeous  priestly 
processions  tread  them  underfoot.  A  steam; 
of  incense  filled  the  air.  I  smelled  Italy— 
as  in  the  magnolia  from  Bourne's  garden — 
and,  even  while  my  heart  leaped  with  the 
consciousness,  the  odor  passed,  and  a  stretch 
of  burning  silence  succeeded. 

It  Avas  an  oppressive  zone  of  heat — op 
pressive  not  only  from  its  silence,  but  from 
the  scene  of  awful,  antique  form?,  whether 
of  art  or  natur?,  that  were1  sittii-g,  closely 
veiled,  in  that  mysterions  Hiscurity.  I  shud 
dered  as  I  fek  that  it'  IMV  cy< :•«  roi.1.1  pierce 


CRUISE   IN   TH1-;    FLYING   DUTCHMAN. 

that  mist,  or  if  it  should  lift  and  roll  away, 
I  should  see  upon  a  silent  shore  low  ranges 
of  lonely  hills,  or  mystic  figures  and  huge 
temples  trampled  out  of  history  by  time. 

This,  too,  we  left.  There  was  a  rustling 
of  distant  palms,  the  indistinct  roar  of  beasts, 
and  the  hiss  of  serpents.  Then  all  was  still 
again.  Only  at  times  the  remote  sigh  of  the 
weary  sea,  mormmg  around  desolate  isles 
undiscovered  ;  and  the  howl  of  winds  that 
h;id  never  wafted  human  voices,  but  had  rung 
endless  changes  upon  the  sound  of  dashing 
waters,  made  the  voyage  more  appalling  and 
the  Hgures  around  me  more  fearful. 

As  the  ship  plunged  on  through  all  the 
varying  zones,  as  climate  and  country  drifted 
I),  hind  us,  unseen  in  the  gray  mist,  but  each, 
in  turn,  making  that  quaint  craft  England 
or  Italy,  Africa  and  the  Southern  seas,  I 
ventured  to  steal  a  glance  at  the  motley 
crew,  to  see  what  impression  this  wild  career 
produced  upon  them. 

They  sat  about  the  deck  in  a  hundred 
list1!  ss  postures.  Some  leaned  idly  over  the 
bulv  •'•\s,  and  looked  wistfully  awav  from 

•/  •/ 

'3 


194  TRUE    AND    ;•, 

•cne  ships,  as  if  they  fancied  they  saw  all  that 
I  inferred  but  couLl  not  see.  As  the  per 
fume,  and  sound,  and  climate  changed,  I 
could  see  many  a  longing  eve  sadden  and 

•*  o       o        »/ 

grow  moist,  and  as  the  chime  of  bells  echoed 
distinctly  like  the  airy  syllables  of  names, 
and,  as  it  were,  made  pictures  in  music  upon 
the  minds  of  those  quaint  mariners — then 
dry  lips  moved,  perhaps  to  name  a  name,, 
perhaps  to  breathe  a  prayer.  Others  sat 
upon  the  deck,  vacantly  smoking  pipes  that 
required  no  refilling,  but  had  an  immortality 
of  weed  and  tire.  The  more  they  smoked 
the  more  mysterious  they  became.  The 
smoke  mule  the  mist  around  them  more  im 
penetrable.,  and  I  could  clearly  sae  that  those 
distant  sounds  gradually  grew  more  distant, 
and,  by  some  of  the  most  desperate  and  con 
stant  smokers,  were  heard  no  more.  The 
faces  of  such  had  an  apathy,  which,  had  it 
been  human,  would  have  been  despair. 

Others  stood  staring  ur>  into  the  rigging, 
as  if  eaJenkittag  when  the  snils  must  needs 
be  rent  and  th'1  vo-nsfe  or/I.  "Rnt  there  was 
no  hope  in  their  eyes,  only  a  bitter  longing. 


CRUISE   IN   THE   FLYING   DUTCHMAN.      19$ 

Some  paced  restlessly  up  and  down  the  deck. 
They  had  evidently  been  walking  a  long, 
long  time.  At  intervals  they,  too,  threw  a 
searching  glance  into  the  mist  that  enveloped 
the  ship,  and  up  into  the  sails  and  rigging 
that  stretched  over  them  in  hopeless  strength 
and  order. 

One  of  the  promenaders  I  especially  no 
ticed.  His  beard  was  long  and  snowy,  like 
that  of  the  pilot.  He  had  a  staff  in  his  hand, 
and  his  movement  was  very  rapid.  His 
body  swung  forward,  as  if  to  a  void  something, 
and  his  glance  half  turned  back  over  his 
shoulder,  apprehensively,  as  if  he  were  threat 
ened  from  behind.  The  head  and  the  whole 
figure  Wtire  bowed  as  if  under  a  burden, 
although  I  could  not  see  that  he  had  any 
thing  upon  his  shoulders ;  and  his  gait  was 
not  that  of  a  man  who  is  walking  off  the 
ennui  of  a  voyage,  but  rather  of  a  criminal 
flying,  or  of  a  startled  traveler  pursued, 

As  he  came  nearer  to  me  in  his  walk,  I 
saw  that  his  features  were  strongly  Hebrew, 
and  there  was  an  air  of  the  proudest  dignity, 
fearfully  abased,  in  his  mien  and  expression. 


196  PRUE   AM)    I, 

It  was  more  than  the  dignity  of  an  indi 
vidual.  I  could  have  believed  that  the  pride 
of  a  race  was  humbled  in  his  person. 

His  agile  eye  presently  fastened  itself 
upon  me,  as  a  stranger.  He  came  nearer  and 
nearer  to  me,  as  he  paced  rapidly  to  and 
fro,  and  was  evidently  several  times  on  the 
point  of  addressing  me,  but.  looking  over 
his  shoulder  apprehensively,  he  passed  on. 
At  length,  with  a  great  effort,  he  paused  for 
an  instant,  and  invited  me  to  join  him  in 
his  walk.  Before  the  invitation  was  fairly 
uttered,  he  was  in  motion  again.  I  followed, 
but  I  could  not  overtake  him.  He  kept  just 
before  me,  and  turned  occasionally  with  an 
air  of  terror,  as  if  he  fancied  L  were  dor;pii<r 
him  ;  then  glided  on  more  rapidly. 

His  f;ice  was  by  r.o  means  agree;.  Mo,  but 
it  had  an  in  >xplic:ible  fascination,  j  s  if  it 
liad  bee  i  turned  upon  \vh;  t  no  other  mcrtal 
eyes  had  ov.-rsvni.  Vet  I  coul.l  hardly  till 
whether  it  W-.T:\  probably,  an  ob;«*t  ol' 
sn;>re:ne  b:viu  v  <-r  of  terror.  He  looked  at 
everything  :«s  \i  he  hope  1  is  impression 
might  o  jiH-.'iMC  •  s  >me  anterior  and  awful 


CRUISE   IN   THE    FLYING   DUTCHMAN.      197 

on  3;  ar.d  I  was  gradually  possessed  with 
the  unpleasant  idea  that  his  eyes  were  never 
closed — that  in  fact,  he  never  slept. 

Suddenly,  fixing  me  with  his  unnatural, 
•wakeful  glare,  hj  whispered  something  which 
I  could  not  understand,  and  then  darted 
forward  even  more  rapidly,  as  if  he  dreaded 
that,  in  merely  speaking,  he  had  lost  time. 

Still  the  ship  drove  on,  and  I  walked  hur 
riedly  along  the  deck,  just  behind  my  com 
panion.  But  our  speed  and  that  of  the  ship 
contrasted  strangely  with  the  moldy  smell 
of  old  rigging,  and  the  listless  and  lazy 
groups,  smoking  and  leaning  on  the  bul 
warks.  The  seasons,  in  endless  succession 
and  iteration,  passed  over  the  ship.  The 
twilight  was  summer  haze  at  the  stern, 
while  it  was  the  fiercest  winter  mist  at  the 
bows.  But  as  a  tropical  breath,  like  the 
warmth  of  a  Syrian  day,  suddenly  touched 
the  brow  of  my  companion,  he  sighed,  and 
I  could  not  help  saying: 

"  You  must  be  tired." 

He  only  shook  his  head  and  quickened 
hie  pace.  But  now  that  I  had  once  spoken, 


198  PRUE   AND   I. 

it  was  not  so  difficult  to  speak,  and  1  asked 
him  why  he  did  not  stop  and  rest. 

He  turned  for  moment,  and  a  mournful 
sweetness  shone  in  his  dark  eyes  and  hag 
gard,  swarthy  face.  It  played  flittiigly 
around  that  strange  look  of  ruined  human 
dignity,  like  a  wan  beam  of  late  sunset 
about  a  crumbling  and  forgotten  temple. 
Ke  put  his  hand  hurriedly  to  his  forehead, 
as  if  he  w^re  trying  to  remember — like  a 
lunatic,  who,  having  heard  only  the  wrangle 
of  fisnds  in  his  delirium,  suddenly  in  a  con 
scious  moment,  perceives  the  familiar  voice 
of  love.  But  who  could  this  be,  to  whom 
mere  human  sympathy  was  so  startlingly 
sweet  ? 

Still  moving,  he  whispered  with  a  woful 
sadness,  "  I  want  to  stop,  but  I  cannot.  If 
I  could  only  stop  long  e:ioug!i  to  leap  over 
the  bulwarks ! " 

Then  he  sighed  long  and  deeply,  and  added, 
"But  I  should  not  drown." 

So  much  had  my  interest  been  excited 
by  his  face  and  movement,  that  I  had  not 
observed  the  costume  of  this  strange  bein£. 


CRUISE  IN  THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN.      199 

He  wore  a  black  hat  upon  his  head.  It  was 
not  only  black,  but  it  was  shiny.  Even  in 
the  midst  of  this  wonderful  scene,  I  could 
observe  that  it  had  the  artificial  newness  of 
a  second-hand  hat ;  and,  at  the  same  mo 
ment,  I  was  disgustad  by  the  odor  of  old 
clothes — very  old  clothes,  indeed.  The  mist 
and  my  sympathy  had  prevented  my  seeing 
before  what  a  singular  garb  the  figure  wore. 
'  It  was  all  second-hand  and  carefully  ironed, 
but  the  garments  were  obviously  collected 
from  every  prv/t  of  the  civilized  globe. 
Good  heavens !  as  I  lookad  at  the  coat,  I  had 
a  strange  sensation.  I  was  sure  that  I  had 
once  worn  that  coat.  It  wits  my  wedding 
surtout — long  in  the  skirts — which  Prue  had 
told  me,  years  and  years  before,  she  had 
given  away  to  the  neediest  Jo\v  beggar  she 
had  ever  seen. 

The  spectral  figure  dwindled  in  my  fancy 
— the  features  lost  th,Mr  antique  grandeur, 
and  the  restless  eye  c:?ns;jd  to  be  sublime 
from  immortal  sleeplessness,  and  became 
only  lively  with  mean  cunning.  The  ap 
parition  was  fearfully  grotesque,  but  the> 


2OO  PRUE   AND   I. 

driving  ship  and  the  mysterious  company 
gradually  restored  its  tragic  interest.  I 
stopped  and  leaned  against  the  side,  and 
heard  the  rippling  water  that  1  could  not 
see,  and  flitting  through  the  mist,  with  anx 
ious  speed,  the  figure  held  its  \v;;y.  What 
was  lie  flying  '  ^  hat  conscience with  relent 
less  sting  pricked  this  victim  on  ? 

Jle  came  again  nearer  and  nearer  to  me 
in  his  walk.  I  recoiled  with  disgust,  this 
time,  no  less  than  terror.  But  he  seemed 
resolved  to  speak,  and,  finally,  each  time,  as 
he  passed  me,  he  asked  single  questions,  as 
a  ship  which  fires  whenever  it  can  bring  a 
gun  to  'jcar. 

"•Can  you  tell  me  to  what  port  we  are 
bound  ? '' 

"  No,"  I  replied  ;  "  but  how  came  yon  to 
take  passage  without  inquiry  ?  To  me  it 
makes  little  difference." 

"Nor  do  I  care,"  he  answered,  when  he 
next  came  near  enough  ;  ';  I  have  already 
been  there." 

"Where?"  asked  I. 

"  Wherever  we   are   going,"  he   replied. 


CRUISE  IN  T::  :  rivixc  DUTCHMAN.    201 

"  I  have  been  there  «i  great  many  times,  and, 
oli !  I  am  very  tired  of  it." 

"  But  why  are  you  here  at  all,  then ;  and 
why  don't  you  stop  ?  " 

There  was  a  singular  mixture  of  a  hundred 
conflicting  emotions  in  his  face,  as  I  spoke. 
The  representative  grandeur  of  a  race,  which 
he  sometimes  showed  in  his  look,  faded  into 
a  glanca  of  hopeless  and  puny  despair. 
His  eyes  looked  at  nie^  curiously,  h's  chest 
heaved,  and  there  was  clearly  a  struggle  in 
his  mind,  between  some  lofty  and  mean 
desire.  At  times,  I  saw  only  the  austere* 
suffering  of  ages  in  his  strongly-carved 
features,  and  again  I  could  see  nothing  but 
the  second-hand  black  hat  above  them.  lie 
rubbed  his  forehead  with  his  skinny  hand  ;  he 
glanced  over  his  shoulder,  as  if  calculating 
whether  he  had  time  to  speak  to  me,  and  then, 
as  a  splendid  defiance  flashed  from  his  pierc 
ing  eyes,  so  that  I  know  how  Milton's  Satan 
looked,  he  said  bitterly,  and  with  hopeless  sor 
row,  that  no  mortal  voice  ever  knew  before  : 

'"I  c.innot  stop:  my  wo  is  infinite,  like 
my  sin  !  "—and  he  passed  into  the  mist. 


2O2  PRUE  AND   I. 

But,  in  a  few  moments,  lie  reappeared.  I 
could  now  see  only  the  hat,  which  sank 
more  and  moreover  his  face,  until  it  covered 
it  entirely  ;  and  I  heard  a  querulous  voice, 
which  seemed  to  be  quarreling  with  itself, 
for  saying  what  it  was  compelled  to  say,  so 
that  the  words  were  even  more  appalling 
than  what  it  had  said  before : 

"OldcloM  old  clo'!" 

I  gazed  at  the  disappearing  figure,  in 
speechless  amazement,  and  was  still  looking, 
when  I  was  tapped  upon  the  shoulder,  and, 
turning  round,  saw  a  German  cavalry  officer, 
with  a  heavy  mustache,  and  a  dog-whistle 
in  his  hand. 

"Most  extraordinary  man,  your  friend 
yonder,"  said  the  officer  ;  "  I  don't  remember 
to  have  seen  him  in  Turkey,  and  yet  I  recog 
nize  upon  his  feet  the  boots  that  I  wore  in  the 
great  Russian  cavalry  charge,  where  I  indi 
vidually  rode  down  five  hundred  and  thirty 
Turks,  slew  seven  hundred,  at  a  moderate 
computation,  by  the  mere  force  of  my  rush, 
and,  taking  the  soven  in  'iirmoiintable  walls 
of  Constantino}-!/ ;;t  one  clean  flying  leap. 


CRUISE   IX   THE   FLYING   DUTCHMAN.      203 

rode  straight  into  the  seraglio,  and,  drop 
ping  the  bridle,  cut  the  sultan's  throat  with 
niv  bridle-hand,  kissed  the  other  to  the 
Lulies  of  the  hareein,  and  was  back  again 
within  our  lines  and  taking  a  glass  of  wine 
Avith  the  hereditary  Grand  Duke  Generalis 
simo  before  he  knew  that  I  had  mounted. 
Oddly  enough,  your  old  friend  is  now  sport 
ing  the  identical  boots  I  wore  on  that  oc- 
c.ssion." 

The  cavalry  officer  coolly  curled  his 
mustache  with  his  lingers.  I  looked  at  him 
in  silence. 

"  Speaking  of  boots,"  he  resumed,  "  I 
don't  remember  to  have  told  you  of  that 
little  incident  of  the  Princess  of  the  Crimea's 
diamonds.  It  was  slight,  but  curious.  I 
was  dining  one  day  with  the  Emperor  of 
the  Crimea,  who  always  had  a  cover  laid 
ior  me  at  his  table,  when  he  said,  in  great 
perplexity,  '  Baron,  my  boy,  I  am  in  straits. 
The  Shah  of  Persia  has  just  sent  me  word 
that  he  has  presented  me  with  two  thousand 
pcarl-of-Oman  necklaces,  and  I. don't  know 
Low  to  get  them  over,  the  duties  are  so 


204  PRUE   AND   I. 

heavy.'  'Nothing  easier,'  replied  I;  'I'll 
bring  them  in  my  boots.'  '  Nonsense  ! '  said 
the  Emperor  of  the  Crimea.  '  Nonsense  I 
yourself,'  replied  I,  sportively  :  for  the  Em 
peror  of  the  Crimea  always  gives  me  my 
joke;  and  so  after  dinner  I  went  over  to 
Persia.  The  thing  was  easily  enough  done. 
I  ordered  a  hundred  thousand  pairs  of  boots 
or  so,  filled  them  with  the  pearls;  said  at 
the  Custom-house  that  they  were  part  of  my 
private  wardrobe,  and  I  had  left  the  blocks 
in  to  keep  them  stretched,  for  I  was  particu 
lar  about  my  bunions.  The  officers  bowul,. 
and  said  that  their  own  feet  were  tender, 
upon  which  I  jokingly  remarked  that  1 
wished  their  consciences  were,  and  so  in  the 
pleasantest  manner  possible  the  poail-ol- 
Oman  necklaces  were  bowed  out  of  Persia, 
and  the  Emperor  of  the  Crimea  gave  me 
three  thousand  of  them  as  my  share.  It 
was  no  trouble.  It  was  only  ordering  the 
boots,  and  whistling  to  the  infernal  rascals 
of  Persian  shoemakers  to  hang  for  then- 
pay." 

I  could  reply  nothing  to  my  new  a<:  quaint 


CRUISE   IN   THE   FLYING   DUTCHMAN.      2O$ 

ance,  but  I  treasured  his  stories  to  tell  to 
Prue,  and  at  length  summoned  courage  to 
ask  him  why  lie  had  taken  passage. 

"  Pure  fun,"  answered  he,  "  nothing  else 
under  the  sun.  You  see,  it  happened  in  this 
way  : — I  was  sitting  quietly  and  swinging 
in  a  cedar  of  Lebanon,  on  the  very  summit 
of  that  mountain,  when  suddenly,  feeling  a 
little  warm,  I  took  a  brisk  dive  into  the 
Mediterranean.  Now  I  was  careless,  and 
got  going  obliquely,  and  with  the  force  of 
such  a  dive  I  could  not  come  up  near  Sicilv, 
as  I  had  intended,  but  1  Vent  clean  under 
Africa,  and  came  out  at  the  Cape  of  Good 
Hope,  and  as  Fortune  would  have  it,  just  as 
this  good  ship  was  passing.  So  .1  sprang 
over  the  side,  and  offered  the  crew  to  treat 
all  round  if  they  would  tell  me  where  I 
started  from.  But  I  suppose  they  had  just 
been  piped  to  grog,  for  not  a  man  stirred, 
•except  your  friend  yonder,  and  he  only  kept 
on  stirring." 

"  Are  you  going  far?  "  I  asked. 

The  cavalry  officer  looked  a  little  dis 
turb"  !  '  '  ~  -nn.->t,  precisely  tell,"  answered 


206  PRUE  AND  I. 

he,  "  in  fact  I  wish  I  could  ; "  and  he  glanced 
round  nervously  at  the  strange  company. 

"  If  you  should  come  our  way,  Prue  and  I 
will  be  very  glad  to  see  you,"  said  I,  "  and  1 
can  promise  vou  a  warm  welcome  from  the 
children.'' 

"  Many  thanks,"  said  the  officer, — and 
handed  me  his  card,  upon  which  I  read,  Le 
Baron  Muncliausen. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  a  low  voice  at 
my  side  ;  and,  turning,  I  saw  one  of  the 
most  constant  smqkers — a  very  old  man — "  1 
beg  your  pardon,  but  can  }Tou  tell  me  where 
I  came  from  ?  " 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  cannot,"  answered  I, 
as  I  surveyed  a  man  with  a  very  bewildered 
and  wrinkled  face,  who  seemed  to  be  intently 
looking  for  something. 

"  Nor  where  I  am  going  ?  " 

I  replied  that  it  was  equally  impossible. 
He  mused  a  few  moments,  and  then  said 
slowly,  "  Do  you  know,  it  is  a  very  strange 
thing  that  I  have  not  found  anybody  who 
can  answer  me  either  of  those  questions. 
And  yet  I  must  have  co*ne  from  some- 


CRUISE   IN   THE   FLYING   DUTCHMAN.      2O/ 

where,"  said  be,  speculatively — "  yes,  and  I 
must  be  going  somewhere,  and  I  should 
really  like  to  know  something  about  it." 

"  I  observe,"  said  I,  "  that  you  smoke  a 
good  deal,  and  perhaps  you  find  tobacco 
clouds  your  brain  a  little." 

"  Smoke !  Smoke  !  "  repeated  he,  sadly 
dwelling  upon  tli3  words ;  "why,  it  'all 
seems  smoke  to  me ; "  and  he  looked  wist 
fully  around  the  deck,  and  I  felt  quite  ready 
to  agree  with  him. 

"  May  I  ask  what  you  are  here  for,"  in 
quired  I ;  "  perhaps  your  health,  or  business 
of  some  kind  ;  although  I  was  told  it  was 
a  pleasure  party  ? " 

"  That's  just  it,"  said  he  ;  "  if  I  only  knew 
where  we  were  going,  I  might  be  able  to 
say  something  about  it.  But  where  are  you 
going  ? " 

u  I  am  going  home  as  fast  as  I  can,"  re 
plied  I  warmly,  for  I  began  to  be  very  un 
comfortable.  The  old  man's  eyes  half  closed, 
and  his  mind  seemed  to  have  struck  a 
scent. 

"  Isn't  that  where  I  was  going?     I  believe 


208  PRUE   AND   I. 

it  is ;  I  wish  I  knew  ;  I  think  that's  what  it 
is  called.  Where  is  home  ?  " 

And  the  old  man  puffed  a  prodigious 
cloud  of  smoke,  in  which  lie  was  quite  lost. 

"  It  is  certainly  very  smoky,"  said  he,  "  I 
came  on  board  this  ship  to  go  to-— in  fact,  I 
meant,  as  I  was  saying,  I  took  passage 

for ."  lie  smoked  silently.  "I  beg  your 

pardon,  but  where  did  you  say  I  was  going  ( " 

Out  of  the  mist  where  he  had  been  lean 
ing  over  the  side,  and  gazing  earnestly  into 
the  surrounding  obscurity,  now  came  a  pale 
young  man,  and  put  his  arm  in  mine. 

"I  see,"  said  he,  "that  you  have  rather 
a  general  acquaintance,  and,  as  you  know 
many  persons,  perhaps  you  know  many 
things.  I  am  young,  you  see,  but  I  am  a 
great  traveler.  I  have  been  all  over  the 
world,  and  in  all  kinds  of  conveyances; 
but,"'  he  continued,  nervously,  starting  con 
tinually,  and  looking  around,  "  1  haven't  yet 
got  abroad." 

"  Not  got  abroad,  and  yet  you  have  been 
everywhere? " 

"  Oh  !  yes  ;  I  know,"  be  replied,  hurriedly  ; 


CRUISE   IN   THE    FLYING    DUTCHMAN.      2OQ 

*'  but  I  mean  that  I  haven't  yet  got  away. 
I  travel  constantly,  but  it  does  no  good — 
anil  perhaps  you  can  tell  me  the  secret  I 
want  to  know.  I  will  pay  any  sum  for  it. 
I  am  very  rich  and  very  young,  and  if  money 
cannot  buy  it,  I  will  give  as  many  years  of 
my  life  as  you  require." 

lie  moved  his  hands  convulsively,  and  his 
hair  was  wet  upon  his  forehead.  He  was 
very  handsome  in  that  mystic  light,  bat  his 
e\v  burned  with  eagerness,  and  his  slight, 
graceful  frame  thrilled-  with  the  earnestness 
of  his  emotion.  The  Emperor  Hadrian,  who 
loved  the  boy  Antinous,  would  have  loved 
the  vonth. 

"  D  it  what  is  it  that  you  wish  to  leave 
behind  ?"  said  I,  at  length,  holding  his  ann 
paternally  ;  "  what  do  you  wish  to  escape  ? " 

lie  threw  his  arms  straight  down  by  his 
s<  le,  clenchod  his  hands,  and  looked  fixedly 
in  mv  eye's.  T!i'^  beautiful  head  was  thrown 
i\  !rtl>»  bank  upon  one  shoulder,  and  the  wan 
1'iced  glowe  I  with  venrning  desire  and  utter 
abnn«lonmenttofH>n6«l*n(w»,  so  that,  without 
iiis  savinir  it,  1  !;:»  -w  that  he  had  never 


210  PRUE   AND   I. 

whispered  the  secret  which  he  was  about  to 
impart  to  me.  Then,  with  a  long  sigh,  as  if 
his  life  were  exhaling,  he  whispered, 

"Myself." 

"  Ah  !  my  boy,  you  are  bound  upon  a  long 
journey." 

"I  know  it,"  he  replied  mournfully  ;  'V.rnl 
I  cannot  even  get  started.  If  I  don't  ;  ct 
off  in  this  ship,  I  fear  I  shall  never  es 
cape.''  His  last  words  were  lost  in  themut 
which  gradually  removed  him  from  rny 
view. 

"The  youth  has  been  amusing  you  with 
some  of  his  wild  fancies,  I  suppose,'1  said  a. 
venerable  man,  who  might  have  been  twin 
brother  of  that  snow^y-bearded  pilot.  "  It  is 
a  great  pity  so  promising  a  young  man 
should  be  the  victim  of  such  vagaries." 

He  stood  looking  over  the  side  for  some 
time,  and  at  length  added, 

"  Don't  you  think  we  ought  to  arrive 
soon  ? " 

"  Where  ?  "  asked  I. 

"  "Why,  in  Eldorado,  of  course,"  answered 
he.  *'  The  truth  is  I  became  very  tired  o? 


CRUISE    IN   THE   FLYING   DUTCHMAN.      2Tf 

that  long  process  to  find  the  Philosopher's 
Stone,  and,  although  I  was  just  upon  the 
point  of  the  last  combination  which  must 
infallibly  have  produced  the  medium,  I 
abandoned  it  when  I  heard  Orellana's  ac 
count,  ami  found  that  Nature  had  already 
done  in  Eldorado  precisely  what  I  was  try 
ing  to  do.  You  see,"  continued  the  old  man 
abstractedly,  "  I  had  put  youth,  and  love, 
and  hope,  besides  a  great  many  scarce 
minerals,  into  the  crucible,  and  they  all 
dissolved  siowly,  and  vanished  in  vapor.  It 
was  curious,  but  they  left  no  residuum  ex- 
c-'pt  a  little  ashes,  which  were  not  strong 
enough  to  make  a  lye  to  cure  a  lame  finger. 
But,  as  1  was  saying,  Orellana  told  us  about 
ELlorad,)  just  in  time,  and  I  thought,  if  any 
ship  would  carry  me  there  it  must  be  this. 
But  I  am  very  sorry  to  find  that  any  one 
who  is  in  pursuit  of  such  a  hopeless  goal  as- 
that  pale  young  man  yonder,  should  have 
taken  passage.  It  is  only  age,"  he  said,, 
slowly  stroking  his  white  beard,  "  that 
teaches  us  wisdom,  and  persuades  us  to  re 
nounce  the  hope  of  escaping  ourselves  ;  and 


212  PRUE   AND    I. 

just  as  we  are  discovering  the  Philosopher's 
Stone,  relieves  our  anxiety  by  pointing  the 
way  to  Eldorado." 

"Are  we  really  going  there?"  asked  I,  in 
some  trepidation. 

"  Can  there  be  any  doubt  of  it?  "  replied 
the  old  man.  "  Where  should  we  be  going, 
if  not  there?  However,  let  us  summon  the 
passengers  and  ascertain." 

So  saying,  the  venerable  man  beckoned 
to  the  various  groups  that  were  clustered, 
ghostlike,  in  the  mist  that  enveloped  the 
ship.  They  seemed  to  draw  nearer  with 
listless  curiosity,  and  stood  or  sat  near  us, 
smoking  as  before,  or,  still  leaning  on  the 
siil'.?,  idly  gazing.  But  the  restless  figure 
who  had  first  accosted  me  still  paced  the 
deck,  flitting  in  and  out  of  the  obscurity  ; 
;ind  as  he  passed  there  was  the  same  mien 
of  humbl  'd  pride,  and  tl:e  air  of  a  fate  of 
tragic  grandeur,  and  still  the  same  faint 
odor  of  old  clothes,  and  the  lo\v  querulous 
cry,  "  Old  clo'!  oil  do'!" 

T!M>  ship  (Usl.C'1  on.  Fr. known  odors  and 
strun^e  so.i.-iiis  still  i;lled  tne  air,  and  all  the 


CRUISE    IN   THE    FLYING   DUTCHMAN.      213 

world  went  by  us  as  we  flew  with  no  other 
noise  than  the  low  gurgling  of  the  sea  around 
the  side 

'•  Gentlemen,"  said  the  reverend  passenger 
for  Eldorado,  "  I  ho|K3  there  is  no  misappre 
hension  as  to  oar  destination  ? " 

As  he  said  this,  there  was  a  general  move- 
nunt  of  anxiety  and  curiosity.  Presently 
the  smoker,  who  had  asked  me  where  lie  was. 
going,  said,  doubtfully  : 

"I  don't  know — it  seems  tome — I  mean. 
I  wish  somebody  would  distinctly  sav  v.  here 

»/  v  * 

we  are  going." 

"  I  think  I  can  throw  a  light  upon  this- 
subject,"  said  a  person  whom  I  had  not  be 
fore  remarked.  He  was  dressed  like  a  sailor,, 
and  had  a  dreamy  eye.  "It  is  very  clear  to 
me  where  we  aregoin^.  1  have  been  taking- 
observations  for  somz  time,  and  I  am  glad. 
to  announce  that  we  are  on  the  eve  of  achiev 
ing  great  fame  ;  and  I  may  add,"  said  he,, 
modestly,  "  that  my  own  good  name  for 
scientih'c  acumen  will  b^  amrly  vindicated. 
Gentlein^'i,  we  are  s.n  '.oubted!y  going  into 
the  Hole." 


214  PRUE  AND   I. 

"  What  hole  is  that  ? "  asked  M.  le  Baron 
Munchausen,  a  little  contemptuously. 

"Sir,  it  will  make  you  more  famous  than 
you  ever  were  before,''  replied  the  first 
speaker,  evidently  much  enraged. 

;'  1  am  persuaded  we  are  going  into  no 
.such  absurd  place,"  said  the  Baron,  exasper 
ated. 

The  sailor  with  the  dreamy  eye  was  fear- 
fuily  angry.  lie  drew  himself  up  stiffly 
and  said  : 

"  Sir,  you  lie  !  " 

M,  le  Baron  Munchausen  tpok  it  in  very 
good  part.  He  smiled  and  held  out  his 
hand  : 

"  My  friend,"  said  he,  blandly,  "  that  is 
precisely  what  I  have  always  heard.  I  am 
glad  you  do  me  no  more  than  justice.  I 
fully  assent  to  your  theory  :  and  your  words 
constitute  mo  the  proper  historiographer 
•of  the  expedition.  But  tell  me  one  thing, 
how  soon,  after  getting  into  the  Hole,  do 
you  think  we  shall  get  out  ?  " 

"  Tho  result  will  provo."  said  the  marine 
gentleman,  handing  the  officer  his  card,  upon 


CRUISE   IN   THE   FLYING   DUTCHMAN.      2IJ> 

which  was  written,  Captain  Sy  mines.  The 
two  gentleme.i  then  walked  aside ;  and  the 
groups  began  to  sway  to  and  fro  in  the  haze 
as  if  not  quite  contented. 

"  (TOO;!  Go  I,"  s:iid  the  pale  youth,  rumirig£- 
up  to  me  ami  clutching  my  arm,  u  I  c.nnot 
go  into  any  Hole  alone  with  rnys:-lf.  I 
siiould  die— I  should  kill  myself.  I  thought. 
somebody  was  on  board,  and  I  hoped  you 
were  he,  who  would  steer  us  to  the  fountain, 
of  oblivion." 

"  Very  well,  that  is  in  the  Hole,"  said  M. 
le  Baron,  who  came  out  of  the  mist  at  that 
moment,  leaning  upon  the  Captain's  arm. 

"  But  can  1  leave  myself  outside  '( "  askeci 
the  youth,  nervously. 

"  Certainly,"  interposed  the  old  Alchemist ; 
"  you  may  be  sure  that  you  will  not  get 
into  the  Hole,  until  you  have  left  yourself 
behind." 

The  pale  young  man  grasped  his  hand, 
and  gazed  into  his  eyes. 

"  And  then  I  can  drink  and  be  happy," 
murmured  he,  as  he  leaned  over  the  side  of 
the  ship  and  listened  to  the  rippling  water, 


2l6  PRUE    AND    I. 

as  if  it  had  been  the  music  of  the  fountain 
of  oblivion." 

"Drink!  drink!"  said  the  smoking  old 
man.  "Fountain!  fountain!  "Why,  I 
believe  that  is  what  I  am  after.  I  beg  your 
p;mlon,"  continued  he,  addressing  the  Al 
chemist.  "  But  can  you  tell  me  if  I  am 
looking  for  a  fountain  ?  " 

''The  fountain  of  youth,  perhaps,"  re 
plied  the  Alchemist. 

"The  very  thing!  "cried  the  smoker,  with 
a  shrill  laugh,  while  his  pipe  fell  from  his 
mouth,  and  was  shattered  upon  the  deck,  and 
tlie  oM  man  tottered  away  into  the  mist, 
•chuckling  feebly  to  himself,  "  Youth  ! 
youth  ! " 

"  He'll  find  that  in  the  Hole,  too,"  said 
the  Alchemist,  as  he  gazed  after  the  reced 
ing  figure. 

The  crowd  now  gathered  more  nearly 
tiround  us. 

"  Well,  gentlemen,"  continued  the  Al 
chemist,  "  where  shall  we  go,  or,  rather, 
where  are  we  going  ?  " 

A  man  in  a  friar's  habit,  with  the  cowl 


CRUISE   IX   THE    FLYING   DUTCHMAN.      2 1/ 

closely  drawn  about  his  head,  now  crossed 
himself,  and  whispered  : 

"  I  have  but  one  object.  I  should  not  have 
been  here  if  I  had  not  supposed  we  were 
going  to  find  Prester  John,  to  whom  I  have 
been  appointed  father  confessor,  and  at 
whose  court  I  am  to  live  splendidly,  like  a 
cardinal  at  Rome.  Gentlemen,  if  you  will 
only  agree  that  we  shall  go  there,  you  shall 
all  be  permitted  to  hold  my  train  when  I 
proceed  to  be  enthroned  as  Bishop  of  Cen 
tral  Africa. 

While  he  was  speaking,  another  old  man 
came  from  the  bows  of  the  ship,  a  figure 
which  had  been  so  immovable  in  its  place 
that  I  supposed  it  was  the  ancient  figure 
head  of  the  craft,  and  said  in  a  low,  hollow 
voice,  and  a  quaint  accent  : 

"  I  have  been  looking  for  centuries,  and  I 
cannot  see  it.  I  supposed  we  were  heading 
for  it.  I  thought  sometimes  I  saw  the  flash 
of  distant  spires,  the  sunny  gleam  of  upland 
pastures,  the  soft  undulation  of  purple  hills. 
Ah  !  me.  I  am  sure  I  heard  the  singing  of 
birds,  and  tho  faint  low  of  c-tH<\  Tint  I  da 


2l8  PRUE   AND    I. 

not  kno\v  :  we  come  no  nearer  ;  and  yet  I 
felt  its  presence  in  the  air.  If  the  mist 
would  only  lift,  we  should  see  it  lying  so  fair 
upon  the  sea,  so  graceful  against  the  sky.  I 
fear  we  may  have  passed  it.  Gentlemen," 
said  he,  sadly,  "  I  am  afraid  we  may  have 
lost  the  island  of  Atlantis  forever." 

There  was  a  look  of  uncertainty  in  the 
throng  upon  the  deck. 

"  But  yet,"  said  a  group  of  young  men  in 
every  kind  of  costume,  and  of  every  country 
and  time,  "  we  have  a  chance  at  the  Encan- 
tadas,  the  Enchanted  Islands.  We  were 
reading  of  them  only  the  other  day,  and  the 
very  style  of  the  story  had  the  music  of 
waves.  How  happy  we  shall  be  to  reach  a 
land  where  there  is  no  work,  nor  tempest, 
nor  pain,  and  we  shall  be  forever  happy." 

"  I  am  content  here,"  said  a  laughing 
youth,  with  heavily  matted  curls.  "  What 
c-in  be  better  than  this?  We  feel  every  cli 
mate,  the  music  and  the  perfume  of  every 
zone,  are  ours.  In  the  starlight  I  woo  the 
mermaids,  as  I  lean  over  the  side,  and  no 
enchanted  island  will  show  us  fairer  forms.  I 


CRUISE    IN    Tliii   FLYING   DUTCHMAN.      2 19 

am  satisfied.  The  ship  sails  on.  "We  can  not 
see,  but  we  can  dream.  What  worker  pain, 
have  we  here  ?  I  like  the  ship ;  I  like  the  voy 
age  ;  I  like  my  company,  and  am  content." 

As  he  spoke  he  put  something  into  his 
mouth,  and,  drawing  a  white  substance  from 
his  pocket,  offered  it  to  his  neighbor,  saying, 
"  Try  a  bit  of  this  lotus  ;  you  will  find  it 
very  soothing  to  the  nerves  and  an  infallible 
remedy  fo;1  homesickness." 

"Gentlemen,"  said  M.  le  Baron  Munchau- 
sen, "  I  have  no  fear.  The  arrangements 
are  well  made;  the  voyage  has  been  perfectly 
planned,  and  each  passenger  will  discover 
what  he  took  passage  to  find,  in  the  Hole 
into  which  we  are  going,  under  the  auspices 
of  tii is  worthy  Captain." 

lie  ceased,  and  silence  fell  upon  the  ship's 
company.  Still  on  we  swept  ;  it  seemed  a 
wear.y  way.  The  tireless  pedestrians  still 
paced  to  and  fro,  and  the  idle  smokers 
puffed.  The  sliip  sailed  on,  and  endless  mu 
sic  and  odor  chased  each  other  through  the 
misty  air.  Suddenly  a  deep  sigh  drew  uni 
versal  attention  to  a  person  who  had  not 


220  PRUE   AND   I. 

yet  spoken.  He  held  a  broken  harp  in  his 
hand,  the  strings  fluttered  loosely  in  the  air, 
and  the  head  of  the  speaker,  bound  with  a 
withered  wreath  of  laurels,  bent  over  it. 

"  No,  no,"  said  he,  "  I  will  not  eat  your 
lotus,  nor  sail  into  the  Hole.  No  magic  root 
can  cure  the  homesickness  I  feel  ;  for  it  is 
no  regretful  remembrance,  but  an  immortal 
longing.  I  have  roamed  farther  than  I 
thought  the  earth  extended.-  I  have  cli-.nbcd 
mountains;  I  have  threaded  rivers  ;  I  have- 
sailed  seas ;  but  nowhere  have  I  seen  the  home 
for  which  my  heartaches.  Ah  !  my  friends, 
you  look  very  weary  ;  let  us  go  home." 

The  pedestrian  paused  a  moment  in  his 
walk,  and  the  smokers  took  their  pipes  from 
their  mouths.  The  soft  air  which  blew  in 
that  moment  across  the  deck,  drew  a  low 
sound  from  the  broken  harp-strings,  and  a, 
light  shone  in  the  eyes  of  the  old  man'of  the 
figure-head,  as  if  the  mist  had  lifted  for  an 
instant,  and  he  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
lost  Atlantis. 

"I  really  believe  that  is  where  I  wish  to 
go,"  said  the  seeker  of  the  fountain  cf  youth. 


CRUISE   IN   THE   FLYING   DUTCHMAN.      221 

"I  think  I  would  give  up  drinking  at  the 
fountain  if  I  could  get  there.  I  do  not 
kno\v,"  he  murmured,  doubtfully;  "it  is 
not  sure ;  I  mean,  perhaps,  I  should  not  have 
strength  to  get  to  the  fountain,  even  if  I  were 
near  it." 

"  But  is  it  possible  to  get  home?"  inquired 
the  pale  young  man.  "I  think  I  should  be 
resigned  if  I  could  get  home." 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  dry,  hard  voice  of 
Prester  John's  confessor,  as  his  cowl  fell  a 
little  back,  and  a  sudden  flush  burned  upon 
his  gaunt  face ;  "  if  there  is  any  chance  of 
home,  I  will  give  up  the  Bishop's  palace  in 
Central  Africa." 

"  But  Eldorado  is  my  home,"  interposed 
the  old  alchemist. 

"  Or  is  home  Eldorado?  "  asked  the  poet, 
with  the  withered  wreath,  turning  towards 
the  Alchemist. 

It  was  a  strange  company  and  a  wondrous 
voyage.  Here  were  all  kinds  of  men,  of  all 
times  and  countries,  pursuing  the  wildest 
hopes,  the  r^ost  chimerical  desires.  One 
took  ir.o  rsido  t;>  rro;i  st  that  I  would  not 


222  FRUE   AND    I. 

let  it  be  known,  but  that  he  inferred  from 
certain  signs  we  were  nearing  Utopia. 
Another  whispered  gaily  in  my  ear  that  he 
thought  the  water  was  gradually  becoming 
of  a  ruby  color — the  line  of  wine;  and  he 
had  no  doubt  we  should  wake  in  the  morn- 
i.ig  and  find  ourselves  in  the  land  of  Cock 
aigne.  A  third,  in  great  anxietv,  stated  to 

O  w    * 

me  that  such  continuous  mists  were  unknown 
upon  the  ocean  ;  that  they  were  peculiar  to 
rivers,  and  that,  beyond  question,  we  were 
drifting  along  some  stream,  probably  the 
Nile,  and  immediate  measures  ought  to  be 
taken  that  we  did  not  go  ashore  at  the  foot 
of  the  mountains  of  the  moon.  Others  were 
quite  sure  that  we  were  in  the  way  of  strik 
ing  the  great  southern  continent ;  and  a 
young  man,  who  gave  his  name  as  "Wilkins, 
said  we  might  be  quite  at  ease  for  presently 
some  friends  of  his  would  come  flying  over 
from  the  neighboring  islands  and  tell  us  all 
we  wished. 

Still  I  smelled  the  moldy  rigging,  and 
the  odor  of  cabbage  was  strong  from  the 
hold. 


CRUISE  IN  THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN.      223 

0  Prue,  what  could  the   ship  be,  in  which 
such    fantastic   characters  were  sailing  to 
ward  impossible  bournes — characters  which 
in  every  age  have  ventured  all  the  bright 
capital   of   life  in    vague   speculations   and 
romantic  dreams  ?      What  could  it  be   but 
the  ship  that  haunts  the  sea  for  ever,  and, 
with  all  sails   set,  drives   onward   before  a 
ceaseless  gale,   and  is  not  hailed,  nor  ever 
co rues  to  port  ? 

1  know  the  ship  is  always  full ;  I  know  the 
graybeard  still  watches  at  the  prow  for  the 
lost  Atlantis,  and  still  the  alchemist  believes 
that  Eldorado  is   at  hand.     Upon  his  aim 
less  quest,  the  dotard  still   asks   where   he 
is  going,  and  the  pale  youth  knows  that  he 
shall  never   fly  himself.      Yet  they  would 
gladly  renounce  that  wild  chase  and  the  dear 
dreams   of   years  could   they  find    what   I 
have  never  lost.     They  were  ready  to  follow 
the  poet  home,  if  he  would  have  told  them 
where  it  lay. 

I  know  where  it  lies.  I  breathe  the  soft 
air  of  the  purple  uplands  which  they  shall 
never  tread.  1  hear  the  sweet  music  of  the 


224  PRUE   AND    I. 

voices  they  long  for  in  vain.  I  am  no 
traveler;  my  only  voyage  is.  to  the  office 
and  home  again.  William  and  Christopher, 
John  and  Charles  sail  to  Europe  and  tlu 
South,  but  1  defy  their  romantic  distances. 
AVhen  the  spring  comejand  the  flowers  l>!o\v, 
I  drift  through  tho  year  belted  with  summer 
and  with  spice. 

With  the  changing  months  I  keep  high 
carnival  in  ;.ll  the  zones.  I  sit  at  home  and 
walk  with  Prue,  and  if  the  sun  tluit  stirs 
the  sap  (j'.iickenii  also  the  wish  to  winder, 
I  remember  my  fellow-voyagers  o:\  that 
romantic  craft,  ;;n  1  looking  round  upon  my 
peaceful  room,  a. id  pressing  more  closely 
the  arm  of  Prue,  I  feel  t!i:it  I  have  reached 
tho  port  for  which  they  hopelessly  sailed. 
And  when  winds  blow  fiercely  and  thenight- 
Btorin  rages,  and  the  thought  of  lost  mariners 
and  of  perilous  voyages  touches  the  soft 
heart  of  Prue,  I  hear  a  voice  sweeter  to  my 
car  than  that  of  the  syrens  to  the  tempest- 
tost  sailor:  "Thank  God!  Your  only 
cruising  is  in  the  Flying  Dutchman  !  " 


FAMILY  PORTRAITS. 


*  Look  here  upon  this  picture,  and  on  this." 

Hamkt 


FAMILY  POKTEAITS. 

"Look  here  upon  this  picture,  and  on  this." 

Hamlet. 

WE  have  no  family  pictures,  Prue  and  I, 
only  a  portrait  of  my  grandmother  hangs 
upon  our  parlor  wall.  It  was  takjen  at  least 
a  century  ago,  and  represents  the  venerable 
lady,  whom  I  remember  in  my  childhood  in 
spectacles  and  comely  cap,  as  a  young  and 
bloomjng  girl. 

She  is  sitting  upon  an  old-fashioned  sofa,, 
by  the  side  of  a  prim  aunt  of  hers,  and  with 
her  back  to  the  open  window.  Her  costume 
is  quaint,  but  handsome.  It  consists  of  a 
cream-colored  dress  made  high  in  the  throat, 
ruffled  around  the  neck,  and  over  the  bosom 
and  the  shoulders.  The  waist  is  just  under 
her  shoulders,  and  the  sleeves  are  tight, 
tighter  than  any  of  our  coat  sleeves,  and  also 

ruffled  at  the  wrist.     Around  the  plump  and 

227 


228  PRUE   AND   I. 

rosy  neck,  which  I  remember  as  shriveled 
and  sallow,  and  .hidden  under  a  decent  lace 
handkerchief,  hangs,  in  the  picture,  a  neck 
lace  of  large  ebony  beads.  There  are  two 
curls  upon  the  forehead,  and  the  rest  of  the 
hair  flows  away  in  ringlets  down  the  neck. 

The  hands  hold  an  open  book  :  the  eyes 
look  up  from  it  with  tranquil  sweetness,  and, 
tli rough  the  open  window  behind,  you  see  a 
quiet  landscape — a  hill,  a  tree,  the  glimpse 
of  a  rivet",  and  a  few  peaceful  summer 
clouds. 

Often  in  my  younger  days,  when  my 
grandmother  sat  by  the  fire,  after  dinner, 
iost  in  thought — perhaps  rememberfng  the 
time  when  the  picture  was  really  a  portrait 
— [  have  curiously  compared  her  wasted  fnce 
with  the  blooming  beauty  of  the  girl,  and 
tried  to  detect  the  likeness.  It  was  strange 
how  the  resemblance  would  sometimes  start 
out :  how,  as  I  gazed  and  gazed  upon  her 
old  face,  age  disappeared  before  my  eager 
glance,  as  snow  melts  in  the  sunshine,  re 
vealing  tljo  flowers  of  a  forgotten  spring. 

It  was  touching  to  see  my  grandmother 


FAMILY   PORTRAITS.  229 

steal  quietly  up  to  her  portrait,  on  still  sum 
mer  mornings  when  every  one  had  left  the 
house, — and  I,  the  only  child,  played,  disre 
garded, — and  look  at  it  wistfully  and  long. 

She  held  her  hand  over  her  eyes  to  shade 
them  from  the  light  that  streamed  in  at  the 
window,  and  I  have  seen  her  stand  at  least 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  gazing  steadfastly  at 
the  picture.  She  said  nothing,  she  made  no 
motion,  she  shed  no  tear,  but  when  she 
turned  away  there  was  always  a  pensive 
sweetness  in  her  face  that  mir.de  it  not  less 
lovely  than  the  face  of  her  youth. 

I  have  learned  since,  what  her  thoughts 
m-.ist  have  been — how  that  long,  wistful 
glance  annihilated  time  and  space,  how  forms 
;;n  1  faces  unknown  to  any  other,  rose  in 
sudden  resurrection  around  her — how  she 
loved,  suffered,  struggled  and  conquered 
again  ;  how  many  a  jest  that  I  shall  never 
hear,  how  many  a  game  that  I  shall  never 
play,  how  many  a  song  that  I  shall  never 
sing,  were  all  renewed  and  remembered  as 
my  grandmother  contemplated  her  picture. 

J  often  stand,  as  she  stood,  gazing  earnestly 


230  PRUE  AND   I. 

at  the  picture,  so  long  and  so  silently,  that 
Prue  looks  up  from  her  work  and  says  she 
shall  be  jealous  of  that  beautiful  belie,  my 
grandmother,  who  yet  makes  her  think  more 
kindly  of  those  remote  old  times. 

"  Yes,  Prue,  and  that  is  the  charm  of  a 
family  portrait." 

"  Yes,  again  ;  but,"  says  Titbottom  when 
he  hears  the  remark,  "  ho\v,  if  one's  grand 
mother  were  a  shrew,  a  termagant,  a  vira- 
go?" 

"  All !  in  that  case — "  I  am  compelled  to 
say,  while  Pruo  looks  up  again,  half  archly, 
and  I  add  gravely — "  you,  for  instance,  Prue." 

Then  Titbottom  smiles  one  of  his  sad 
svniles,  and  we  change  the  subject. 

Yet,  I  am  always  glad  when  Minim  Scul- 
pin,  our  neighbor,  who  knows  that  my  op 
portunities  are  few,  comes  to  ask  me  to  step 
round  and  see  the  family  portraits. 

The  Sculpins,  I  think,  are  a  very  old 
family.  Titbottom  says  they  date  from 
the  deluge.  But  I  thought  people  of  Eng 
lish  descent;  p~f»frtTfMl  to" stop  with  "William 
the  Conqueror,  who  cam  >  f-o:n  France. 


FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

Before  going  with  Minim,  I  always  fortify 
myself  with  a  glance  at  the  great  family 
Bible,  in  which  Adam,  Eve,  and  the  patri 
archs,  lire  indifferently  well  represented. 

"Those  are  tho  ancestors  of  the  Howards, 
the  Plantagenets,  and  the  Montmorencis,'* 
says  Prui>,  surprising  me  with  her  erudition. 
"  Have  you  any  remoter  ancestry,  Mr.  Scul 
pin '£"  she  asks  Minim,  who  only  smiles 
compassionately  upon  the  dear  woman, 
while  1  am  butttoning  my  coat. 

Then  we  step  along  the  street,  and  I  am. 
conscious  of  trembling  a  little,  for  I  feel  as 
if  I  were  going  to  court.  Suddenly  we  are 
standing  before  the  range  of  portraits. 

"  This,"  says  Minim,  with  unction,  "  is 
Sir  Solomon  Sculpin,  the  founder  of  the 
family." 

"  Famous  for  what  ?  "  I  ask,  respectfull}^ 

"  For  founding  the  family,"  replies  Minim 
gravely,  and  I  have  sometimes  thought  a 
little  severely. 

"This,"  he  says,  pointing  to  a  dame  in 
hoops  and  diamond  stomacher,  "  this  is  Lady 
Sheba  Sculpin." 


232  PRUE   AND    I. 

"Ah!  yes.    Famous  for  what  ?''  I  inquire 

"  For  being  the  wife  of  Sir  Solomon." 

Then,  in  order,  comes  a  gentleman  in  a 
hug^i,  curling  wig,  looking  indifferently  like 
James  the  Second,  or  Louis  the  Fourteenth, 
and  Holding  a  scroll  in  his  hand. 

"  The  Right  Honorable  Haddock  Sculpin, 
Lord  Privy  Seal,  etc.,  etc." 

A  delicate  beauty  hangs  between,  a  face 
fair,  and  loved,  and  lost,  centuries  ago — a 
song  to  the  eye — a  poem  to  the  heart — the 
Aureliu  of  that  old  society. 

'•  Lady  Dorothea  Sculpin,  who  married 
yomg  Lord  Pop  and  Cock,  and  died  prema 
turely  in  Italy." 

Poor  Lady  Dorothea  !  whose  great  grand 
child,  in  the  tenth  remove,  died  last  week, 
an  old  man  of  eighty  ! 

Next  the  gentle  lady  hangs  a  fierce  figure, 
flourishing  a  sword,  with  an  anchor  embroi 
dered  on  his  coat-collar,  and  thunder  and 
lightning,  sinking  ships,  flames  and  tornadoes 
in  the  background. 

"  Ilo-ir  Admiral  Fir  Shark  Sculpin,  who 
fell  in  the  <rreat  action  olr  Madagascar." 


FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  233 

So  Minim  goes  on  through  the  series, 
brandishing  his  ancestors  about  my  bead, 
and  incontinently  knocking  me  into  admi 
ration. 

And  when  we  reach  the  last  portrait  r.r.d 
our  own  times,  what  is  the  natural  emotion.  ?• 
Is  it  not  to  put  Minim  against  the  wall,  draw 
off  at  him  with  my  eyes  and  mind,  scan  him, 
and  consider  his  life,  and  determine  how 
mucti  of  the  Right  Honorable  Haddock'-s 
integrity,  and  the  Lady  Dorothy's  loveliness, 
and  the  Admiral  Shark's  valor,  reappears  in 
the  modern  man  ?  After  all  this  proving 
and  refining,  ought  not  the  last  child  of  a 
famous  race  to  be  its  flower  and  epitome? 
Or,  in  the  case  that  he  does  not  chance  to  be 
so,  is  it  not  better  to  conceal  the  family 
name  ?  * 

I  am  told,  however,  that  in  the  higher 
circles  of  society,  it  is  better  not  to  conceal 
the  name,  however  un'worthy  the  man  or 
woman  may  bo  who  bears  it.  Prue  once 
remonstrated  with  a.  iady  about  the  marriage 
of  a  lovely  voting  givl  with  a  cousin  of 
Minim's;  but  th"  o  !nT  ;  ^swer  r.hc  received 


234  TRUE   AND    I. 

was,  "  "Well,  he  may  not  be  a  perfect  man, 
but  then  he  is  a  Sculpin,"  which  consider 
ation  apparently  gave  great  comfort  to  the 
lady's  mind. 

But  even  Prue  grants  that  Minim  has  some 
reason  for  his  pride.  Sir  Solomon  was  a 
respectable  man,  and  Sir  Shark  a  brave  one; 
and  the  Right  Honorable  Haddock  a  learned 
one  ;  the  Lady  Sheba  was  grave  and  gracious 
in.  her  way ;  and  the  smile  of  the  fair 
Dorothea  lights  with  soft  sunlight  those 
lon<r-£rons  summers.  The  filial  blood  rushes 

O   O 

more  gladly  from  Minim's  heart  as  he  gazes ; 
find  admiration  for  the  virtues  of  his  kindred 
inspires  and  sweetly  mingles  with  good 
resolutions  of  his  own. 

Time  has  its  share,  too,  in  the  ministry, 
an  1  the  influence.  The  hills  bevond  the 

v  •• 

river  lay  yesterday,  at  sunset,  lost  in  purple 
o-loo-.n  ;  thev  receded  into  airv  distances  of 

*.  */ 

dreams  and  faery ;  .they  sank  softly  into 
night,  the  poaks  oT  the  delectable  mountains. 
l)ut  I  knrv,  ns  1  uri/-'1*!  enchanted,  that  the 
hilh,  so  pnrple-^oft  of  seeming,  were  hard, 
and  gray,  and  barren  in  the  wintry  twilight; 


FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  235 

and  that  in  the  distance  \vas  the  magic  that 
made  them  fair. 

So,  beyond  the  river  of  time  that  flows 
between,  walk  the  brave  men  and  the  beau 
tiful  women  of  our  ancestry,  grouped  in 
twiliglit  upon  the  shore.  Distance  smooths 
iiway  defects,  and,  with  gentle  darkness, 
roun.ls  every  form  into  grace.  It  steals  tire 
harshness  from  their  speech,  and  every  word 
becomes  a  song.  Far  across  the  gulf  that 
ever  widens,  they  look  upon  us  with  eyes 
•whose  glance  is  tender,  and  which  light  us 
to  success.  We  acknowledge  our  inheri 
tance;  we  accept  our  birthright;  we  own 
that  their  careers  have  pledged  us  to  noble 
action.  Every  great  life  is  an  incentive  to 
all  other  lives ;  but  when  the  brave  heart, 
that  beats  for  the  world,  loves  us  with  the 
warmth  of  private  affection,  then  the  ex 
ample  of  heroism  is  more  persuasive,  because 
more  personal. 

This  is  the  true  pride  of  ancestry.  It  is 
founded  in  the  tenderness  with  which  the 
child  regards  the  father,  and  in  the  romance 
that  time  sheds  upon  history. 


236  PRUE   AND    I. 

"  Where  be  all  the  bad  people  buried  ?  " 
asks  every  man,  with  Charles  Lamb,  as  he 
strolls  among  the  rank  graveyard  grass, 
sim!  brushes  it  aside  to  read  of  the  faithful 
husban.l,  and  the  loving  wife,  and  the  dutiful 
chad. 

He  finds  only  praise  in  the  epitaphs, 
bv32aaso  the  human  heart  is  kind  ;  because  it 
yearns  with  wistful  tenderness  after  all  its 
brethren  who  have  passed  into  the  clou:l, 
and  will  only  speak  well  of  the  departed. 
No  offense  is  longer  an  offenss  when  the 
grass  is  green  over  the  offender.  Even  faults 
then  seem  characteristic  and  individual. 
Even  Justice  is  appeased  when  the  drop  falls. 
How  ths  old  stories  and  plays  teem  with 
the  incident  of  the  duel  in  which  one  gen 
tleman  fall?,  and,  in  dying,  forgives  and  is 
forgiven.  We  turn  the  page  with  a  tear. 
How  much  better  had  there  been  no  offense, 
b'lt  how  well  that  death  wipes  it  out. 

It  is  not  observed  in  history  that  families 
improve  with  time.  It  is  rather  discovered 
th-it  t'ie  whole  in-'Uo!'  i;  like  a  comet,  of 
which  the  brightest  pi;t  is  the  head  ;  and 


FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  237 

tho  tail,  although  long  and  luminous,  is  grad 
ually  shaded  into  obscurity. 

Yet,  by  a  singular  compensation,  the  pride 
of  ancestry  increases  in  the  ratio  of  distance. 
Adam  \vas  valiant,  and  did  so  well  at  Poic- 
tieiv,  that  he  was  knighted — a  hearty,  homely 
co  mtry  gentleman,  who  lived  humbly  to  the 
ea.l.  But  young  Lucifer,  his  representative  in 
t!i  3  twentieth  remove,  has  a  tinder-like  con 
ceit  because  old  Sir  Adam  was  so  brave  and 
humble.  Sir  Adam's  sword  is  hung  up  at 
iio  ne,  and  Lucifer  has  a  box  at  the  opera. 
O;i  a  thin  finger  he  has  a  ring,  cut  with  a 
ina.teh  fizzling,  the  crest  of  the  Lucifers.  But 
if  ha  should  be  at  a  Poictiers,  he  would  run 
away.  Then  history  would  be  sorry — not 
only  for  his  cowardice,  but  for  the  shame  it 
brings  upon  old  Adam's  name. 

So,  if  Minim  Sculpin  is  a  bad  young  man, 
he  not  only  shames  himself,  but  he  disgraces 
that  illustrious  line  of  ancestors,  whose  char 
acters  are  known.  His  neighbor  Mudge, 
has  no  pedigree  of  this  kind,  and  when  he 
reels  homeward,  \ve  do  not  suffer  the  sorrow 
of  a:iv  fair  Lady  Dorothv  in  such  a  descend- 


238  PRUE   AND   I. 

ant — we  pity  him  for  himself  alone.  But 
genius  and  power  are  so  imperial  and  uni 
versal,  that  when  Minim  Sculpin  falls,  we 
are  grieved  not  only  for  him,  hut  for  that 
eternal  truth  and  beauty  which  appeared  in 
t!i3  vilor  of  Sir  Shark,  and  the  loveliness 
of  Lady  Djrothy.  His  neighbor  Mudge's 
grandfather  may  have  been  quite  as  valorous 
and  virtuous  as  Sculpin's;  but  wo  know  of 
the  one,  and  we  do  not  know  of  the  other. 

Therefore,  Prae,  I  say  to  my  wifj,  who 
has,  by  this  time,  fallen  as  soundly  asbop  as 
if  I  had  been  preaching  a  real  sermon,  do 
not  let  Mrs.  Madge  feel  hurt,  because  I  g:ize 
so  long  and  earnestly  npo:i  the  portrait  of 
tlie  fair  Lady  Sculpin,  and,  lost  in  dreams, 
mingle  in  a  society  which  distance  and 
poetry  immortalize. 

But  let  the  love  of  the  family  portraits 
belong  to  poetry  and  not  to  politics.  It  is 
good  in  the  one  way,  and  bad  in  the  other. 

The  sentiment  of  ancestral  pride  is  an  in 
tegral  part  of  human  nature.  Its  organisa 
tion  in  institutions  is  the  real  object  of  en 
mity  to  all  sensible  men,  because  it  is  a  di- 


FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  239 

rect  preference  of  derived  to  original  power, 
implying  a  doubt  that  the  world  at  every 
period  is  able  to  take  care  of  itself. 

The  family  portraits  have  a  poetic  signifi 
cance;  but  he  is  a  brave  child  of  the  family 
who  dares  to  show  them.  They  all  sit  in 
p  -.ssionbss  and  austere  judgment  upon  liim- 
sj'f.  Lat  him  not,  itivibe  us  to  S33  them,  un 
til  h?  has  considered  whether  they  are  lion- 
o.'j-l  or  di.rjr.ica  I  by  his  o\vn  career — until 
h)  has  1  >oked  in  t!i3  glass  of  his  own  thought 
n\  \  sjanaj  1  hU  owa  proportions. 

The  family  portraits  are  liko  a  woman's 
diamonds,  they  may  flash  finely  enougli  be 
fore  t'le  world,  but  she  herself  trembles  lest 
thoir  luster  eclipse  her  eyes.  It  is  difficult 
to  resist  the  te.i  ler.cy  to  depend  upon  those 
portr.iiti,  an.1  t)  enjoy  vicariously  through 
thorn  a  hig'i  consideration.  But,  after  all, 
what  girl  is  co:nplimented  when  you  curi 
ously  reg'iril  h  ar  because  hor  mother  was 
beautiful  ?  What  attenuato.l  consumptive, 
in  \vhom  solf-res.;)ect  is  yet  unconsumed, 
delight?  in  yo-ir  r">>n^>t  fo-  him,  founded  in 
honor  for  iris  staiwart  ancestor? 


240  PRUE   AND    I. 

No  man  worthy  the  name  rejoices  in  any 
homage  which  his  own  effort  and  character 
have  not  deserved.  You  intrinsically  insult 
him  when  you  make  him  the  scapegoat  of 
your  admiration  for  his  ancestor.  But  when 
his  ancestor  is  his  accessory,  then  your  hom 
age  would  flatter  Jupiter.  All  that  Minim 
Sculpin  do3s  by  his  own  talent  is  the  more 
radiantly  sst  and  ornamented  by  the  family 
fame.  The  imagi.iatio  i  is  pleased  when 
Lord  Jo'.m  Russell  is  Premier  of  England 
and  a  whig,  bscausa  the  great  Lord  William 
Russell,  his  ancestor,  died  in  England  for 
liberty. 

In  the  samo  way  Minim's  sister  Sara  adds 
to  her  o\vn  grace  the  sweet  memory  of  the 
Lady  Dorothy.  When  she  glides,  a  sunbeam, 
through  that  quiet  house,  and  in  winter 
makes  summer  by  her  presence;  when  she 
sits  at  tl^  piano,  singing  in  the  twilight,  or 
stands  leaning  against  the  Venus  in  the  cor 
ner  of  the  ro  >m — herself  more  graceful- 
then,  in  glancing  from  her  to  the  portrait  of 
the  g3n*lo  D'>:*othy,  you  feol  that  the  long 
years  betwee.i  tiiei:i  have  be,  n  lighted  by 


FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  24  I 

the  sajne  sparkling  grace,  and  shadowed  by 
the  same  pensive  smile— for  this  is  but  one 
•Sara  and  one  Dorothy,  out  of  all  that  there 
are  in  the  world. 

As  we  look  at  these  two,  we  must  own 
that  noblesse  oblige  in  a  sense  sweeter  than 
we  knew,  and  be  glad  when  young  Sculpin 
invites  us  to  see  the  family  portraits. 
Could  a  man  lie  named  Sidney,  and  not  be 
it  better  man,  or  .Milton,  and  be  a  churl? 

But  it  is  apart  from  any  historical  associa 
tion  that  I  like  to  look  at  the  family  portraits. 
TheSculpins  were  very  distinguished  heroes, 
and  judges,  and  founders  of  families;  but  I 
chiefly  linger  upon  their  pictures,  because 
they  were  men  and  women.  Their  portraits 
remove  the  vagueness  from  history,  and  give 
it  reility.  Ancient  valor  and  beauty  cease  to 
be  names  and  poetic  myths,  and  become 
facts.  I  feel  that  they  lived,  and  loved,  and 
suffered  in  those  old  days.  The  story  of 
th  Mr  lives  is  instantly  full  of  human  symj  r.- 
tliy  in  my  mind,  and  I  judge  them  moio 
gently,  more  generously. 

Then  I  look   at  those  of  us  who  are  the 
16 


242  PRUE  AND   I. 

spectators  of  the  portraits.  I  know  that  we 
are  made  of  the  same  flesh  and  blood,  that 
time  is  preparing  us  to  be  placed  in  his  cabi 
net  and  upon  canvas,  to  be  curiously  studied 
by  the  grandchildren  of  unborn  Prues.  I 
put  out  my  hands  to  grasp  those  of  my  fel 
lows  around  the  pictures.  "  Ah  !  friends, 
we  live  not  only  for  ourselves.  Those  whom 
we  shall  never  see  will  look  to  us  as  models, 
as  counselors.  We  shall  be  speechless  then. 
We  shall  only  look  at  them  from  the  canvas 
and  cheer  or  discourage  them  by  their  idea 
of  our  lives  and  ourselves.  Let  us  so  look 
in  the  portrait,  that  they  shall  love  our 
memories — that  they  shall  say,  in  turn, 
*  they  were  kind  and  thoughtful,  thoso  queer 
old  ancestors  of  ours;  let  us  not  disgrace 
them.' " 

If  they  only  recognize  us  as  men  and  wom 
en  like  themselves,  they  will  be  the  better 
for  it,  and  the  family  portraits  will  be  family- 
blessings. 

This  u  what  my  grandmother  did.  Gho 
looked  at  her  own  portrait,  at  the  portrait 
of  her  youth,  with  much  the  same  feeling 

• 


FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  243 

that  I  remember  Prue  as  she  was  when  1 
first  saw  her,  with  much  the  same  feeling 
that  I  hope  our  grandchildren  will  remem 
ber  us. 

Upon  those  still  summer  mornings,  though 
she  stood  withered  and  wan  in  a  plain  bk<  k 
silk  gown,  a  close  cap,  and  spectacles,  ;.r.<l 
held  her  shrunken  and  blue- veined  hand  to 
shield  her  eyes,  yet,  as  she  gazed  with  that 
long  and  longing  glance,  upon  the  blooming 
beauty  that  had  faded  from  her  form  forever, 
she  recognized  under  that  flowing  hair  and 
that  rosy  cheek — the  immortal  fashions  of 
youth  and  health — and  beneath  those  many 
ruffles  and  that  quaint  high  waist,  the  fash 
ions  of  the  day — the  same  true  and  loving 
woman.  If  her  face  was  pensive  as  she 
turned  away,  it  was  because  truth  and  love 
are,  in  their  essence,  forever  young  ;  and  it 
is  the  hard  condition  of  nature  that  they 
cannot  always  appear  so. 


OUR  COUSIN  T-HE  CURATE. 


*  Why.  let  the  stricken  deer  go  weep, 

The  heart  ungalled  play ; 
For  some  must  watch  while  :  ome  must  sleep; 
Thus  runs  the  world  away." 


OUR  COUSIN  THE  CURATE. 

65  Why,  let  the  stricken  deer  go  weep, 

The  heart  ungalled  play  ; 

For  some  must  watch  while  some  must  sleep  j. 
Thus  runs  the  world  away.'" 

PRUE  and  I  have  very  few  relations  •  Prue,. 
especially,  says  that  she  never  had  any  but 
her  parents,  and  that  she  hasjnone  now  but 
her  children.  She  often  wishes  she  had  some? 
large  aunt  in  the  country,  who  might  come 
in  unexpectedly  with  bags  and  bundles, 
and  encamp  in  our  little  house  for  a  whole 
winter. 

u  Because  you  are  tired  of  me,  I  suppose, 
Mrs.  Prue?''  I  reply  with  dignity,  when  she 
alludes  to  the  imaginary  large  aunt. 

"  You  could  take  aunt  to  the  opera,  you 
k-'.o'.v,  and  walk  witli  her  on  Sundays,"  says 
Prue,  as  she  knits  and  calmly  looks  me  in 
the  face,  without  recognizing  my  observa 
tion. 

247 


248  PRUE   AND   I. 

Then  I  tell  Prue  in  the  plainest  possible 
manner  that,  if  her  large  aunt  should  come 
up  from  the  country  to  pass  the  \vinter,  I 
shoald  insist  upon  her  bringing  her  oldest 
daughter,  with  whom  I  would  flirt  so  desper- 
sitaly  tlint  the  street  would  ba  scandalized, 
and  even  the  corner  grocery  should  gossip 
ovjr  the  iniquity. 

"  Poor  Prue,  how  I  should  pity  you,"  I 
s:iy  triumphantly  to  my  wife. 

"  Poor  oldest  daughter,  liow  I  should  pity 
liar,"  replies  Prue,  plaoidly  counting  her 
stitches. 

So  the  happy  evening  passes,  as  we  gaily 
mock  each  other,  and  wonder  how  old  the 
iarge  aunt  should  be,  and  how  many  bun 
dles  she  ought  to  bring  with  her. 

"I  would  have  her  arrive  by  the  late  train 
at  midnight,"  says  Prue  ;  "  and  when  she 
iiad  eaten  some  supper  and  had  gone  to  her 
room,  she  should  discover  that  she  had  left  the 
most  precious  bundle  of  all  in  the  cars,  with 
out  whose  contents  she  could  not  sleep,  nor 
tlress,  and  you  would  st'irt  to  hunt  for  it." 

And  the  needle  clicks  f.ister  than  ever 


OUR   COUSIN*    THE   CURATE.  249 

"  Yes,  and  when  I  am  gone  to  the  office 
in  the  morning,  and  am  busy  about  impor 
tant  affairs — yes,  Mrs.  Prue,  important  af 
fairs,"  I  insist,  as  my  wife  half  raises  her  head 
incredulously — a  then  our  large  aunt  front 
the  country  \vould  like  to  go  shopping-,  and 
would  want  you  for  her  escort.  And  she 
would  cheapen  tape  at  all  the  shops,  and 
even  to  tho  great  Stewart  himself,  she  would 
offer  a  shilling  less  for  the  gloves.  Then 
the  comely  clerks  of  the  great  Stewart  would 
look  at  you,  with  their  brows  lifted,  as  if 
they  said,  Mrs.  True,  your  large  aunt  had 
better  stay  in  the  country." 

And  the  neeuie  clicks  more  slowly  as  if 
the  tune  were  changing. 

The  large  aunt  will  never  come,  I  know  ; 
nor  shall  I  ever  flirt  with  the  oldest  daughter.. 
I  should  like  to  believe  that  our  little  house 
will  teem  with  aunts  and  cousins  when  Prue 
and  I  are  gone  ;  but  how  can  I  believe  it^ 
when  there  is  a  milliner  within  three  doors, 
and  a  hair-dresser  combs  his  wigs  in  the  late 
dining-room  of  my  opposite  neighbor?  The- 
large  aunt  from  the  country  is  entirely  im- 


25O  PRUK    AND    I. 

possible,  and  as  Prue  feels  it  and  I  feel  it, 
the  needles  seem  to  click  a  dirge  for  that 
late  lamented  lady. 

''  But  at  least  \ve  have  one  relative,  Prue." 
The  needles  stop  :    only   the   clock   ticks 
upon  the    mantel  to  remind  us  how  cease 
lessly  the  stream  of  time  flows  on  that  bears 
us  away  from  our  cousin  the  curate. 

AVhen  Prue  and  I  are  most  cheerful,  and 
the  world  looks  fair — we  talk  of  our  cousin 
the  curate.  When  the  world  seems  a  little 
cloudy,  arid  we  remember  that  though  we 
have  lived  and  loved  together,  we  may  r.ot 
<lie  together — we  talk  of  our  cousin  the  cu 
rate.  When  we  plan  little  plans  for  the  boys 
and  dream  dreams  for  the  girls — we  talk 
of  our  cousin  the  curate.  When  I  tell  Prue 
of  Aurelia  whose  character  is  every  day 
lovelier — we  talk  of  our  cousin  the  curate. 
There  is  no  subject  which  does  not  seem  to 
lead  naturally  to  our  cousin  the  curate.  As 
the  soft  air  steals  in  and  envelopes  everything 
in  the  world,  so  that  the  trees,  and  the  hills, 
iind  the  rivers,  the  cities,  the  crops,  and  the 
sen,  are  made  remote,  and  delicate,  and  beauti- 


OUR  co'jsi:,"  Tii;;  CLT.ATE.         2^1 

ful,  by  its  pure  baptism,  so  over  all  the  events 
of  our  little  lives,  comforting,  refining,  and 
elevating,  falls  like  a  benediction  the  remem 
brance  of  our  cousin  the  curate. 

He  was  my  only  early  companion.  He 
had  no  brother,  I  had  none  :  and  we  became 
brothers  to  each  other.  He  was  always 
beautiful.  His  face  was  symmetrical  and 
delicate  ;  his  figure  was  slight  and  graceful. 
He  looked  as  the  sons  of  kings  ought  to  look : 
as  I  am  sure  Philip  Sidney  looked  when  he 
was  a  boy.  His  eyes  were  blue,  and  as  you 
looked  at  them,  they  seemed  to  let  your  gaze 
out  into  a  June  heaven.  The  blood  ran 
<  lose  to  the  skin,  and  his  complexion  had 
the  rich  transparency  of  light.  There  was 
nothing  gross  or  heavy  in  his  expression  or 
texture  ;  his  soul  seemed  to  have  mastered 
J.ii  body.  But  he  had  strong  passions,  for 
liis  delicacy  was  positive,  not  negative  :  it 
was  not  weakness,  but  intensity. 

There  was  a  patch  of  ground  about  the 
house  which  we  ti'lod  as  a  garden.  I  was 
proud  of  my  morning  glories,  and  sweet 
peas;  my. cousin  cultivated  roses.  One  day 


252  PRUE    AND    I. 

— and  we  could  scarcely  have  been  more 
than  six  years  old — we  were  digging  mer 
rily  and  talking.  Suddenly  there  was  some 
kind  of  difference ;  I  taunted  him,  and,  raising- 
his  spade,  he  struck  me  upon  the  leg.  The 
blow  was  heavy  for  a  boy,  and  the  blood 
trickled  from  the  wound.  I  burst  into  in 
dignant  tears,  and  limped  toward  the  housa. 
My  cousin  turned  pale  and  said  nothing,  but 
just  as  I  opened  the  door,  he  darted  by  me^ 
and  before  I  could  interrupt  him,  he  had  con 
fessed  his  crime,  and  asked  for  punishment. 

From  that  day  he  conquered  himself.  lie 
devoted  a  kind  of  ascetic  energy  to  subduing 
his  own  will,  and  1  remember  no  other  out 
break.  But  the  penalty  he  paid  for  con 
quering  his  will  was  a  loss  of  the  gushing- 
expression  of  feeling.  My  cousin  became 
perfectly  gentle  in  his  manner,  but  there 
was  a  want  of  that  pungent  excess,  which  i» 
the  finest  flavor  of  character.  His  views 
were  moderate  and  calm.  He  was  swept 
away  by  no  boyish  extravagance,  and,  even 
while  I  wished  he  would  sin  only  a  very 
little,  I  still  adored  him  as  a  saint.  The 


OUR   COUSIN    THE    CURATE.  253 

truth  is,  as  I  tell  Prue,  I  am  so  very  bad  be- 
•cause  I  have  to  sin  for  two — for  myself  and 
our  cousin  the  curate.  Often,  when  I  returned 
panting  and  restless  from  some  frolic,  which 
Jiad  \vasted  almost  all  the  night,  I  was  re 
buked  as  I  entered  the  room  in  which  he  lay 
peacefully  sleeping.  There  was  something 
lio'.y  in.  the  profound  repose  of  his  beauty, 
sind,  as  I  stood  looking  at  him,  how  many  a 
tiins  the  tears  have  dropped  from  my  hot  eyes 
9i[».i  his  face,  while  I  vowed  to  make  my- 
s^!f  worthy  of  such  a  companion,  for  I  felt 
my  heart  owning  its  allegiance  to  that  strong 
ami  imperial  nature. 

My  cousin  was  loved  by  the  boys,  but  the 
girls  worshiped  him.  His  mind,  large  in 
<rrasp,  and  subtle  in  perception,  naturally 
•commanded  his  companions,  while  the  luster 
of  his  character  allured  those  who  could  not 
understand  him.  The  asceticism  occasionally 
showed  itself  a  vein  of  hardness,  or  rather 
of  severity  in  his  treatment  of  others.  He 
did  what  he  thought  it  his  duty  to  do,  but 
he  forgot  that  few  could  see  the  right  so 
clearly  ;n  he,  and  verv  few  of  those  few 


254  PRUE   AND    I. 

could  so  calmly  obey  the  least  command  of 
conscience.  I  confess  I  was  a  little  afraid 
of  him,  for  I  think  I  never  could  be  severe. 

In  the  long  winter  evenings  I  often  read 
to  Prue  the  story  of  some  old  father  of  the 
church,  or  some  quaint  poem  of  George 
Herbert's — and  every  Christmas-eve,  I  read 
to  her  Milton's  Hymn  of  the  Nativity.  Yetv 
when  the  saint  seems  to  us  most  saintly  or 
the  poem  most  pathetic  or  sublime,  we  find 
ourselves  talking  of  our  cousin  the  curate. 
I  have  not  seen  him  for  many  years ;  but,, 
when  we  parted,  his  head  had  the  intellect 
ual  symmetry  of  Milton's,  without  the  puri 
tanic  stoop,  and  with  the  stately  grace  of  a, 
cavalier. 

Such  a  boy  has  premature  wisdom — he 
lives  and  suffers  prematurely. 

Prue  loves  to  listen  when  I  speak  of  the 
romance  of  his  life,  and  I  do  not  wonder. 
For  my  part,  I  find  in  the  best  romnnce  0:1  ly 
the  story  of  my  love  for  her,  and  often  as  I 
read  to  her,  whenever  I  come  to  \\-\r.\t  Tit- 
bottom  calls  "tin  cryim:  p-irt,"  if  1  lift  n;y 
eyes  su.ldenly,  I  bee  iii.:t  P. -lie's  eyes  are  fixed 


OUR   COUSIN   THE   CURATE.  255 

on  me  with  a  softer  light  by  reason  of  their 
moisture. 

Our  cousin  the  curate  loved,  while  he  was 
yet  a  boy,  Flora,  of  the  sparkling  eyes  and 
tiu  ringing  voice.  His  devotion  was  abso 
lute.  P'lora  was  flattered,  because  all  the 
girls,  as  I  said,  worshiped  him  ;  but  she  was 
a  gav,  glancing  girl,  who  had  invaded  the 
student's  heart  with  her  audacious  brilliancy, 
and  was  half  surprised  that  she  had  subdued 
it.  Our  cousin — for  I  never  think  of  him  as 
my  cousin,  only — wasted  away  under  the 
fjrvor  of  his  passion.  His  life  exhaled  as 
License  before  her.  He  wrote  poems  to  her, 
and  sang  them  under  her  window,  in  the 
summer  moonlight.  He  brought  her  flowers 
and  precious  gifts.  "When  he  had  nothing 
elso  to  give,  be  gave  her  his  love  in  a  homage 
so  eloquent  and  beautiful  that  the  worship 
was  like  the  worship  of  the  wise  men.  The 
gay  Flora  was  proud  and  superb.  She  was  a 
girl,  and  the  bravest  and  best  boy  loved  her. 
She  was  young,  and  the  wisest  and  truest 
youth  loved  her.  They  lived  together,  we 
all  lived  together,  in  the  happy  valley  of  child- 


25 J  TRUE   AND   I. 

hood.  \Ve  looked  forward  to  manhood  as 
island-poets  look  across  tho  sea,  believing 
that  the  whole  world  beyond  is  a  blest  A  ruby 
of  spices. 

The  months  went  by,  and  the  young  love 
continued.  Our  cousin  and  Flora  were  only- 
children  still,  and  there  was  no  engagement. 
The  elders  looked  upon  the  intimacy  as 
natural  and  mutually  beneficial.  It  would 
help  soften  the  boy  and  strengthen  the  girl ; 
and  they  took  for  granted  that  softness  and 
strength  were  precisely  what  were  wanted. 
It  is  a  great  pity  that  men  and  women  for 
get  that  they  have  been  children.  Parents 
are  apt  to  be  foreigners  to  their  sons  and 
daughters.  Maturity  is  the  gate  of  Para 
dise,  which  shuts  behind  us ;  and  our  memo 
ries  are  gradually  weaned  from  the  glories  in, 
which  our  nativity  was  cradled. 

The  months  went  by,  the  children  grew 
older,  and  they  constantly  loved.  Now 
Prue  always  smiles  at  one  of  my  theories ; 
she  is  entirely  skeptical  of  it ;  but  it  is,  never 
theless,  my  opinion,  that  men  love  most  pas 
sionately,  and  women  most  permanently. 


OUR   COUSIN    THE    CURATE.  257 

Men  love  at  first  and  most  warmly  ;  women 
love  last  and  longest.  This  is  natural 
enough  ;  for  nature  makes  women  to  be  won: 
and  men  to  win.  Men  are  the  active,  positive 
force,  and,  therefore,  they  are  more  ardent 
and  demonstrative. 

I  can  never  get  farther  than  that  in  m\ 
philosophy,  when  Prue  looks  at  me,  and 
smiles  me  into  skepticism  of  my  own  doc 
trines.  But  they  are  true,  notwithstanding. 

My  day  is  rather  past  for  such  specula 
tions  ;  but  so  long  as  Aurelia  is  unmarried, 
I  am  sure  I  shall  indulge  myself  in  them.  I 
Lave  never  made  much  progress  in  the  phil 
osophy  of  love ;  in  fact,  I  can  only  be  sure 
of  this  one  cardinal  principle,  that  when  you 
are  quite  sure  two  people  cannot  be  in  love 
with  each  other,  because  there  is  no  earthly 
reason  why  they  should  be,  then  you  may  be 
very  confident  that  you  are  wrong,  and  that 
they  are  in  love,  for  the  secret  of  love  is 
past  finding  out.  Why  our  cousin  should 
have  loved  the  gay  Flora  so  ardently  was 
hard  to  say ;  but  that  he  did  so  was  not  dif 
ficult  to  see. 

IT 


258  PRl'C    AND    I. 

IT 3  went  away  to  colbgo.  lie  wrote  the 
m  >st  eloquent  and  passionate  letters ;  and 
\\h?:i  iu  returned  in  vacations,  he  had  no 
eyes,  cars,  nor  heart  for  any  other  being.  I 
rarely  saw  him,  for  I  was  living  away  from 
o.sr  early  home,  and  was  busy  in  a  store — 
learning  to  be  bookkeeper — but  I  heard 
aftjrward  from  himself  the  whole  story. 

One  day  when  he  came  home  for  the  holi 
days,  he  found  a  young  foreigner  with  Flora 
— a  handsome  youth,  brilliant  and  graceful. 
I  have  asked  Prue  a  thousand  times  why 
women  adore  soldiers  and  foreigners.  She 
says  it  is  because  they  love  heroism  and  are 
romant'u.  A  soldier  is  professionally'  a 
here,  says  Prue,  an:i  a  foreigner  is  associated 
with  all  unknown  and  beautiful  regions.  I 
hope  thora  is  no  worse  reason.  But  if  it  be 
the  distance  which  is  romantic,  then,  by  her 
own  rule,  the  mountain  which  looked  to  you 
so  lovely  when  you  saw  it  upon  the  horizon. 
\,hen  you  stand  upon  its  rocky  and  barren 
side,  has  transmitted  its  romance  to  its  re 
motest  neighbor.  I  cannot  but  admire  the 
fancies  of  girls  which  make  them  poets. 


OUR   COUSIN    THE   CURATE.  259 

They  have  only  to  look  upon  a  dull-eyed, 
ignorant,  exhausted  roue,  with  an  impudent 
mustache,  and  they  surrender  to  Itah",  to  the 
tropics,  to  the  splendors  of  nobility,  and  a 
court  life — and 

"  Stop,"  says  Prue,  gently  ;  "you  have  no 
right  to  say  '  girls  '  do  so,  because  some  poor 
victims  have  been  deluded.  Would  Aurelia 
surrender  to  a  blear-eyed  foreigner  in.  a 
mustache  ? " 

Prue  has  such  a  reasonable  way  of  putting 
these  things  ? 

Our  cousin  came  home  and  found  Flora 
and  the  young  foreigner  conversing.  The 
young  foreigner  had  large,  soft  black  eyes, 
and  the  dusky  skin  of  the  tropics.  His 
manner  was  languid  and  fascinating,  court 
eous  and  reserved.  It  assumed  a  natural 
supremacy,  and  you  felt  as  if  here  \vcro  a 
young  prince  traveling  before  he  came  into 
possession  of  his  realm. 

It  is  an  old  fable  that  love  is  blind.  But 
I  think  there  are  no  eyes  so  sharp  as  those 
of  lovers.  I  am  sure  there  is  not  a  shade 
upon  Prue's  brow  that  I  do  not  instantly 


260  PRUE   AND   I. 

remark,  nor  an  altered  tone  in  her  voice  that 
I  do  not  instantly  observe.  Do  you  suppose 
Aurelia  would  not  note  the  slightest  devia 
tion  of  heart  in  her  lover,  if  she  had  one  ? 
Love  is  the  coldest  of  critics.  To  be  in  love 
is  to  live  in  a  crisis,  and  the  very  imminence 
of  uncertainty  makes  the  lover  perfectly 
self-possessed.  His  eye  constantly  scours 
the  horizon.  There  is  no  footfall  so  light 
that  it  does  not  thunder  in  his  ear.  Love  is 
tortured  by  the  tempest  the  moment  the 
cloud  of  a  hand's  size  rises  out  of  the  sea. 
It  foretells  its  own  doom  ;  its  agony  is  past 
before  its  sufferings  are  known. 

Our  cousin  the  curate  no  sooner  saw  the 
tropical  stranger,  and  marked  his  impression 
upon  Flora,  than  he  felt  the  end.  As  the 
shaft  struck  his  heart,  his  smile  was  sweeter, 
and  his  homage  even  more  poetic  ami  rever 
ential.  I  doubt  if  Flora  understood  him  or 
herself.  She  did  not  know,  what  he  instinc 
tively  perceived,  that  she  loved  him  1  >ss. 
But  there  are  no  degrees  iu  love  :  when  it  .s 
less  than  absolute  a-ul  supreme,  it  is  nothing. 
Our  cousin  and  ilora  were  not  formally 


OUR   COUSIN   THE   CURATE.  26l 

engage;!,  but  their  betrothal  was  understood 
by  all  of  us  as  a  thing  of  course.  He  did 
not  allude  to  tho  stranger;  but  as  day  fol 
lowed  day,  ho  saw  with  every  nerve  all  that 
passed.  Gradually-  so  gradually  that  she 
scarcely  noticed  it — our  cousin  left  Flora 
more  and  more  with  the  soft-eyed  stranger, 
whom  lie  saw  she  preferred.  His  treatment 
of  her  was  so  full  of  tact,  he  still  walked  and 
talked  with  her  so  familiarly,  that  she  was 
not  troubled  by  any  fear  that  he  saw  what 
she  hardly  saw  herself.  Therefore,  she  was 
not  obliged  to  conceal  any  thing  from  him  or 
from  herself ;  but  all  .the  soft  currents  of 
her  heart  were  setting  toward  the  West  In 
dian.  Our  cousin's  cheek  grew  paler,  and 
his  soul  burned  and  wasted  within  him. 
His  whole  future — all  his  dream  of  life — had 
been  founded  upon  his  love.  It  was  a  stately 
palace  built  upon  thesand,  and  now  the  sand 
was  sliding  away.  I  have  read  somewhere, 
that  love  will  sacrifice  everything  but  itself. 
But  our  cousin  sacrificed  his  love  to  the  hap 
piness  of  his  mistress.  He  ceased  to  treat 
her  as  pocuiia  lv  l.is  o\vn.  He  made  no 


262  PRUE   AND    I. 

claim  in  word  or  manner  that  everybody 
might  not  have  made.  He  did  not  refrain 
trom  seeing-  her,  or  speaking  of  her  as  of  all 
his  other  friends  ;  and,  at  length,  although 
no  one  could  say  how  or  when  the  change 
had  been  made,  it  was  evident  and  under 
stood  that  he  was  no  more  her  lover,  but 
that  both  were  the  best  of  friends. 

lie  still  wrote  to  her  occasionally  from  col 
lege,  and  his  letters  were  those  of  a  friend, 
not  of  a  lover.  He  could  not  reproach  her.  I 
do  not  believe  any  man  is  secretly  surprised 
that  a  woman  ceases  to  love  him.  Her  love 
is  a  neavenly  favor  won  by  no  desert  of  his. 
If  it  passes,  he  can  no  more  complain  than  a 
flower  when  the  sunshine  leaves  it. 

Before  our  cousin  left  college,  Flora  was 
married  to  'he  tropical  stranger.  It  was  the 
brightest  of  June  days,  and  the  summer 
smiled  upon  the  bride.  There  were  roses  in 
her  hand  and  orange  flowers  in  her  hair,  and 
the  village  church  bill  rang  out  over  the 
peaceful  fields.  The  warm  sunshine  lay  upon 
the  landscape  like  God's  blessing,  and  Prue 
and  I,  not  yet  married  ourselves,  stood  at  an 


OUR  COUSIN   THE   CURATE.  263 

open  Avindow  in  the  old  meeting-house,  hand 
in  hand,  while  the  young  couple  spoke  their 
vows.  Prue  says  that  brides  are  always 
beautiful,  and  I,  who  remember  Prue  her 
self  upon  her  weduing-day — ho\v  can  I  deny 
it?  Truly,  the  gay  Flora  was  lovely  that 
summer  morning,  and  the  throng  was  happy 
in  the  old  church.  But  it  was  very  sad 
to  me,  although  I  only  suspected  then  what 
now  I  know.  I  shed  no  tears  at  my  o\vn 
wedding,  but  I  did  at  Flora's, Although  I  knew 
she  was  marrying  a  soft  eyed  youth  whom 
she  dearly  loved,  and  who,  I  doubt  not, 
dearly  loved  her. 

Among  the  group  of  her  nearest  friends 
was  our  cousin  the  curate.  When  the  cere 
mony  was  ended,  he  came  to  shake  her  hand 
with  the  rest.  His  face  was  calm,  and  his 
smile  sweet,  and  his  manner  unconstrained. 
Flora  did  not  blush — why  should  she  't — 
but  shook  his  hand  warmly,  and  thanked 
him  for  his  good  wishes.  Then  they  all 
sauntered  down  the  aisle  together  ;  there 
were  some  tears  with  the  smiles  among  the 
other  friends ;  our  cousin  handed  the  bride 


264  PRUE   AND   I. 

into  her  carriage,  shook  hands  with  the  hus 
band,  closed  the  door,  and  Flora  drove  away. 

I  have  never  seen  her  since  ;  I  do  not  even 
know  if  she  be  living  still.  I>;:t  I  shall  ;  1- 
ways  remember  her  as  she  looked  that  Juno 
morning,  holding  roses  in  her  h:md,  and 
wreathed  with  orange  flowers.  Dear  Flor  i 
it  was  no  fault  of  hers  that  she  loved  one 
man  more  thnn  another:  she  could  not  be 
blamed  for  rot  preferring  our  cousin  to  the 
West  Indian  :  there  is  no  fault  in  the  story? 
it  is  only  a  tr.'.ge-Jy. 

Our  cor.sin  carried  all  the  collegiate 
honors — but  without  exciting  jealousy  or 
envy.  lie  was  so  really  the  best,  that  his 
companions  were  anxious  he  should  have  the 
sign  of  his  superiority.  lie  studied  hard,  ho 
thought  much,  and  wrote  well.  Tlure  was 
no  evidence  of  any  blight  upon  his  ambition 
or  career,  but  after  living  quietly  in  the 
country  for  some  time,  he  went  to  Europe 
and  traveled.  When  .he  returned,  he  re 
solved  to  study  law,  but  presently  relin 
quish^!  it.  Then  he  colloctH  "••"t^rials  for 
a  history,  but  suffered  th«.?:r.  !>!';>  r.nusod. 


OUR   COUSIN    THE   CURATE.  265 

Somehow  the  mainspring  was  gone.  lie 
used  to  come  and  pass  weeks  with  Prue  and 
me.  His  coming  made  the  children  happy, 
for  he  sat  with  them,  and  talked  and  played 
with  them  all  day  long,  as  one  of  themselves. 
They  had  no  quarrels  when  our  cousin  the  cu 
rate  was  their  playmate,  and  their  laugh  was 
hardly  sweeter  than  his  as  it  ran  down  fiom 
the  nursery.  Yet  sometimes,  as  Prue  was  set 
ting  the  tea-table,  and  I  sat  musing  by  the 
fire,  she  stopped  and  turned  to  me  ;is  we 
heard  that  sound,  and  her  eyes  filleil  with 
tears. 

lie  was  interested  in  all  subjects  that  in 
terested  others.  His  fine  perception,  his  clt-ar 
sense  his  noble  imagination,  illuminated 
every  question.  His  friends  wanted  him  to 
go  into  political  life,  to  writea  great  book,  to 
do  something  worthy  of  his  powers.  It  was 
the  very  thing  he  longed  to  do  himself;  but 
he  came  and  played  with  the  children  in  the 
nursery,  and  the  great  deed  was  undone. 
Often,  in  the  long  winter  evenings,  we  talked 
of  the  past,  vhibTitbottom  sat  silent  by,  and 
Prue  w:is  hasilv  k:iittir:<r.  lie  told  us  theinci- 


266  PRUE   AND    I. 

dents  of  his  early  passion — but  he  did  not  mor 
alize  about  it,  nor  sigh,  nor  grow  moody. 
He  turned  to  Prue,  sometimes,  and  jested 
gently,  and  often  quoted  from  the  old  song 
of  George  Withers,  I  believe :  - 

"  If  she  be  not  fair  for  me, 
What  care  I  how  fair  she  be  ?  " 

But  there  was  no  flippancy  in  the  jesting; 
I  thought  the  sweet  humor  was  no  gayer 
than  a  flower  upon  a  grave. 

I  am  sure  Titbottom  loved  our  cousin  the 
curate  for  his  heart  is  as  hospitable  as  the 
summer  heaven.  It  was  beautiful  to  watch 
his  curtesy  toward  him,  and  I  do  not  wonder 
that  Prue  considers  the  deputy  bookkeeper 
the  model  of  a  high-bred  gentleman.  When 
you  see  his  poor  clothes,  and  thin  gray  hair, 
his  loitering  step,  and  dreamy  eye,  you 
might  pass  him  by  as  an  inefficient  man ;  but 
when  you  hear  his  voice  always  speaking  for 
the  noble  and  generous  side,  or  recounting, 
in  a  half-melancholy  chant,  the  recollections 
of  his  youth  ;  when  you  know  that  his  heart 
beats  with  the  simple  emotion  of  a  boy's 
heart,  and  that  his  courtesy  is  as  delicate  as 


OUR   COUSIN   THE   CURATE.  267 

a  girl's  modesty,  you  will  understand  why 
Prue  declares  that  she  has  never  seen  but 
one  man  who  reminded  her  of  our  especial 
favorite,  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  and  that  his 
name  is  Titbottom. 

At  length  our  cousin  went  abroad  again  to 
Europe.  It  was  many  years  ago  that  we 
watched  him  sail  away,  and  when  Titbottom, 
and  Prue,  and  I,  went  home  to  dinner,  the 
^rrace  that  was  said  that  day  was  a  fervent 
prayer  for  our  cousin  the  curate.  Many  an 
evening  afterward,  the  children  wanted  him, 
.and  cried  themselves  to  sleep  calling  upon 
his  name.  Many  an  evening  still,  our  talk 
flags  into  silence  as  we  sit  before  the  fire, 
.and  Prue  puts  down  her  knitting  and  takes 
my  hand,  as  if  she  knew  my  thoughts,  al 
though  we  do  not  name  his  name. 

He  wrote  us  letters  as  he  wandered  about 
the  world.  They  were  affectionate  letters, 
full  of  observation,  and  thought,  and  de 
scription.  He  lingered  longest  in  Italy,  but 
he  said  his  conscience  accused  him  of  yielding 
to  the  syrens ;  and  he  declared  that  his  life 
was  running  uselessly  awav.  At  last  he 


268  PRUE   AND   I. 

came  to  England.  He  was  charmed  with 
everything,  and  the  climate  was  even  kinder 
to  him  than  that  of  Italy.  He  went  to  all 
the  famous  places,  and  saw  many  of  the 
famous  Englishmen,  and  wrote  that  he  felt 
England  to  be  his  home.  Burying  himself 
in  the  ancient  gloo.n  of  a  university  town, 
although  past  the  prime  of  life,  he  studied 
like  an  ambitious  boy.  He  said  again  that 

•/ 

his  life  had  been  wine  poured  upon  the 
ground,  and  he  felt  guilty.  And  so  our 
cousin  became  a  curate. 

"Surely,"  wrote  he,  "you  and  Prue  will 
be  glad  to  hear  it ;  and  my  friend  Titbottom. 
can  no  longer  boast  that  he  is  moro  useful 
in  the  world  than  I.  Dear  old  George 
Herbert  has  already  said  what  1  would  say 
to  you,  aii'.l  here  it  is. 

"  '  I  made  a  posy,  while  the  day  ran  by  ; 
Here  will  I  smell  my  remnant  out,  and  tie 

My  life  within  this  band. 
But  time  did  beckon  to  the  flowers,  and  they 
My  noon  most  cunningly  did  steal  away, 

And  wither  *d  in  my  hand, 

"  'My  hand  was  next  to  them,  and  then  my  heart ; 

I  took,  without  moro  thinking,  in  good  part, 

Time's  gentle  admonition  ; 


OUR  COUSIN   THE   CURATE.  269 

Which  did  so  sweetly  death's  sad  taste  convey, 
Making  my  mind  to  smell  my  fatal  day, 
Yet  sugaring  the  suspicion. 


"  '  Farewell,  dear  flo(wers,  sweetly  your  time  ye  spent, 
Fit,  while  ye  lived,  for  smell  or  ornament, 

And  after  death  for  cures  ; 
I  follow  straight  without  complaints  or  grief, 
Since  if  my  scent  be  good,  I  care  not  if 

It  be  as  short  as  yours.'  " 

This  is  our  only  relation  :  and  do  you 
wonder  that,  whether  our  days  are  danc  or 
bright,  wo  naturally  speak  of  our  cousin 
the  curate?  There  is  no  nursery  longer, 
for  the  children  are  grown  ;  but  I  have  seen 
Prue  stand,  with  her  hand  holding  the  door 
for  an  hour,  and  looking  into  the  room  now 
so  sad!  v  still  and  tidy,  with  a  sweet  solem 
nity  in  her  eyes  that  I  will  call  holy.  Our 
children  have  forgotten  their  old  playmate, 
but  I  am  sure  if  there  be  any  children  in  his 
parish,  over  the  sea,  they  love  our  cousin  the 
curate,  and  watch  eagerly  for  his  coming. 
Does  his  step  falter  now,  I  wonder  is  that 
long,  fair  hair,  gray  ;  is  that  laugh  as  musi 
cal  in  thos'*  distant  homes  ns  it  used  to  be 
in  our  nursery  ;  has  England,  among  all  her 


2/0  PRUE   AND   I. 

good  and  great  men,  any  man  so  noble  as 
our  cousin  the  curate  ? 

The  great  book  is  unwritten  ;  the  great 
deeds  are  undone  ;  in  no  biographical  dic 
tionary  will  you  find  the  name  of  our  cousin 
the  curate.  Is  his  life,  therefore,  lost  ?  Have 
his  powers  been  wasted  ? 

I  do  not  dare  to  say  it ;  for  I  see  Bourne, 
on  the  pinnacle  of  prosperity,  but  still  look 
ing  sadly  for  his  castle  in  Spain  ;  I  see  Tit- 
bottom  an  old  deputy  bookkeeper,  whom 
nobody  knows,  but  with  his  chivalric  heart, 
loyal  to  whatever  is  generous  and  humane, 
full  of  sweet  hope,  and  faith,  and  devotion  ; 
I  see  the  superb  Aurelia,  so  lovely  that  the 
Indians  would  call  her  a  smile  of  the  Great 
Spirit,  and  as  beneficent  as  a  saint  of  the 
calendar — how  shall  I  say  what  is  lost,  or 
what  is  won  ?  I  know  that  in  every  way, 
and  by  all  his  creatures,  God  is  served  and 
his  purposes  accomplished.  How  should  I 
explain  or  understand,  I  who  am  only  an  old 
bookkeeper  in  a  white  cravat  ? 

Yet  in  all  history,  in  the  splendid  triumphs 
of  emperors  and  kings,  in  the  dreams  of 


OUR   COUSIN   THE   CURATE.  2/1 

poets,  the  speculations  of  philosophers,  the 
sacrifices  of  heroes,  and  the  ecstasies  of 
saints,  I  find  no  exclusive  secret  of  success. 
Prue  says  she  knows  that  nobody  ever  did 
more  good  than  our  cousin  the  curate,  for 
every  smile  and  word  of  his  is  a  good  deed ; 
and  I,  for  my  part,  am  sure  that,  although 
many  must  do  more  good  in  the  world, 
nobody  enjoys  it  more  than  Prue  and  I, 


THE  END. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Slip-25m-9,'60(,B2e36s4)4280 


College 
Library 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A    001322014    o 


.  %; 


1 


*     *  ' 


fc '  & 

Jtfe      «f - 

*.** 

<•      »» 


L> 

^IK 
^^ 


